stomach. It must be cooked for him artificially in the infernal
pestilential pitcher of your novel-writers. Into the fire with the
rubbish! I shall have the girl taking up with--God knows what all--about
heavenly fooleries that will get into her blood, like Spanish flies, and
scatter to the winds the handful of Christianity that cost her father so
much trouble to keep together. Into the fire with them I say! The girl
will take the devil's own nonsense into her head; amidst the dreams of
her fool's paradise she'll not know her own home, but forget and feel
ashamed of her father, the music-master; and, lastly, I shall lose a
worthy, honest son-in-law who might have nestled himself so snugly into
my connections. No! damn it! (Jumps up in a passion.) I'll break the
neck of it at once, and the major--yes, yes, the major! shall be shown
where the carpenter made the door. (Going.)

MRS MILLER. Be civil, Miller! How many a bright shilling have his
presents----

MILLER (comes back, and goes up to her). The blood money of my daughter?
To Beelzebub with thee, thou infamous bawd! Sooner will I vagabondize
with my violin and fiddle for a bit of bread--sooner will I break to
pieces my instrument and carry dung on the sounding-board than taste a
mouthful earned by my only child at the price of her soul and future
happiness. Give up your cursed coffee and snuff-taking, and there will
be no need to carry your daughter's face to market. I have always had my
bellyful and a good shirt to my back before this confounded scamp put his
nose into my crib.

MRS MILLER. Now don't be so ready to pitch the house out of window. How
you flare up all of a sudden. I only meant to say that we shouldn't
offend the major, because he is the son of the president.