"Father," said the young man, "I have too much of your own blood in me
to be afraid of any man--but for all that, I neither will nor can fight
Meehaul Neil."

"Very well," said the father, bitterly, "that's enough. _Dher Manim_,
Oonagh, you're a guilty woman; that boy's no son of mine. If he had
my blood in him, he couldn't act as he did. Here, you intherloper, the
door's open for you; go out of it, an' let me never see the branded
face of you while you live." The groans of the son were audible from his
bed-room.

"I will go, father," he replied, "an' I hope the day will come when
you'll all change your opinion of me. I can't, however, stir out till I
send a message a mile or so out of town."

The old man in the mean time, wept as if his son had been dead; his
tears, however, were not those of sorrow, but of shame and indignation.

"How can I help it," he exclaimed, "when I think of the way that the
Neils will clap their wings and crow over us! If it was from any other
family he tuck it so inanely, I wouldn't care so much; but from them!
Oh, Chiernah! it's too bad! Turn out, you villain!"

A charge of deeper disgrace, however, awaited the unhappy young man.
The last harsh words of the father had scarcely been uttered, when three
constables came in, and inquired if his son were at home.

"He is at home," said the father, with tears in his eyes, "and I never
thought he would bring the blush to my face as he did by his conduct
last night."