"Then, father," he continued, "I prefer the certainty of my present
life to the uncertainty of the old. I will not dissolve my
connection with the Friends by a shock which might give thee
trouble; but I will slowly work away from them. Notice will be
taken of my ways; there will be family visitations, warnings, and
the usual routine of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret
Alison, nobody will be surprised at my being read out of meeting.
I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing has gone on
about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be either a man
or a milksop."

The color rose to Henry Donnelly's cheeks, and his eyes flashed,
but he showed no signs of anger. He moved to De Courcy's side and
laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"Patience, my boy!" he said. "It's the old blood, and I might have
known it would proclaim itself. Suppose I were to shut my eyes to
thy ridings, and thy merry-makings, and thy worldly company. So
far I might go; but the girl is no mate for thee. If O'Neil is
alive, we are sure to hear from him soon; and in three years, at
the utmost, if the Lord favors us, the end will come. How far has
it gone with thy courting? Surely, surely, not too far to
withdraw, at least under the plea of my prohibition?"

De Courcy blushed, but firmly met his father's eyes. "I have
spoken to her," he replied, "and it is not the custom of our family
to break plighted faith."

"Thou art our cross, not Sylvia. Go thy ways now. I will endeavor
to seek for guidance."