"Mary--woman!" cried the old man, trembling--"Call me not feyther--thou
art none of mine--thou hast no feyther now--nor I a daughter--thou art a
serpent that hath stung the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning
villain--the black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our
arms--from our happy home to misery and pollution--go, and bless him for
breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"

Overcome by these heart-rending reproaches, the distressed girl fainted;
but the strong arm of the young Cotter supported her--for her
tender-hearted youth, moved by his fallen sister's sorrows, had ventured
again to intercede.

"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old
man--"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where she may.
Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his clenched hand, while
anger flashed from his eye.

"Strike! feyther--strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting into
tears--"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou wilt--I care not--I will
never turn my heart agen poor Mary!--Bean't she my sister? Did thee not
teach me to love her?--Poor lass!--she do want it all now, feyther--for
she be downcast and broken-hearted!--Nay, thee art kind and good,
feyther--know thee art--I zee thine eyes be full o' tears--and
thee--thee woant cast her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother,
speak to 'un; speak to sister Mary too--it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee
kill her wi' unkindness!"

The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer offered any
opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in his hands, he