"Hegh, sir, now you ha' the bra' time before you, you maun e'en try and
be as geud as he. And if life last, ye wull too; for there never waur a
bad ane of that stock. Wi' heads
kindly stup'd to the least, and lifted manfu' oop to the heighest,--that
ye all war' sin ye came from the Ark. Blessin's on the ould name!
though little pelf goes with it, it sounds on the peur man's ear like a
bit of gould!"

"Do you not see now," said Roland, as we turned away, "what we owe to a
name, and what to our forefathers? Do you not see why the remotest
ancestor has a right to our respect and consideration,--for he was a
parent? 'Honor your parents': the law does not say, 'Honor your
children!' If a child disgrace us, and the dead, and the sanctity of
this great heritage of their virtues,--the name; if he does--" Roland
stopped short, and added fervently, "But you are my heir now,--I have no
fear! What matter one foolish old man's sorrows? The name, that
property of generations, is saved, thank Heaven,--the name!"

Now the riddle was solved, and I understood why, amidst all his natural
grief for a son's loss, that proud father was consoled. For he was less
himself a father than a son,--son to the long dead. From every grave
where a progenitor slept, he had heard a parent's voice. He could bear
to be bereaved, if the forefathers were not dishonored. Roland was more
than half a Roman; the son might still cling to his household
affections, but the Lares were a part of his religion.