"Oh! feyther!--oh! mother!"--exclaimed he, drawing them hastily on one
side and whispering something in a low, and almost inaudible voice.

The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to her
chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent rage,
clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice:

"Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on thee!--I tell
'ee, she shan't come hither!--No--never--never;--there's poison in her
breath--a' will spurn her from me!--A pest on her!--What; wilt not do
my bidding?"

"O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart seemed
overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night--ye wou'dna kick a cur
from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee be hot and hasty,
feyther, thou art not uncharitable--On me knees!"--

"Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his
remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son--I am deaf--deaf!--Mine own
hand shall bar the door agen her!"--adding with bitterness--"let her
die!"--and stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his
purpose--when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment was
drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm, appeared at
the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder--she was as pale as
death--and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her--a
profusion of light brown hair hung dishevelled and in disorder about her
neck and shoulders, and added to her forlorn appearance. She stretched
forth her arms and pronounced the name of "Father!" but further
utterance was prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom.