"Alas, sir!" she replied, stung and shocked by his unmanly reflections
upon the memory of her mother, whilst her tears burst out afresh, "I am
this moment weeping for my father's disregard of it."

"How, madam! I am a liar, am I? Oh, dutiful daughter!"

"Mamma, sir, was all truth, all goodness, all affection. She was at once
an angel and a martyr, and I will not hear her blessed memory insulted
by the very man who, above all others, ought to protect and revere it.
I am not, papa, to be intimidated by looks. If it be our duty to defend
the absent, is it not ten thousand times more so to defend the dead?
Shall a daughter hear with acquiescence the memory of a mother, who
would have died for her, loaded with obloquy and falsehood? No, sir!
Menace and abuse myself as much as you wish, but I tell you, that while
I have life and the power of speech, I will fling back, even into a
father's face, the falsehoods--the gross and unmanly falsehoods--with
which he insults her tomb, and calumniates her memory and her virtues.
Do not blame me, sir, for this language; I would be glad to honor you if
I could; I beseech you, my father, enable me to do so."

"I see you take a peculiar--a wanton pleasure in calling me a liar."

"No, sir, I do not call you a liar; but I know you regard truth no
farther than it serves your own purposes. Have you not told me just now,
that the gentleman in the Mitre Inn has made certain disclosures to you
concerning himself and me? And now, father, I ask you, is there one word
of truth in this assertion? You know there is not. Have you not
sought my confidence by a series of false pretences, and a relation of
circumstances that were utterly without foundation? All this, however,