by moonlight with Mr. O'Byrne;—child as I was, he did not like it. 'Child as I was!' This was adding insult to injury. I threw myself at his feet in the most approved manner—implored him not to sacrifice the happiness of his child to ambition—talked of a cottage and content—of blighted hopes and an early grave. I am not quite sure whether my father laughed or swore; I rather think he did both. However, he sent for my mother to try and convince me: instead, she endeavoured to comfort me by dwelling on the imprudence of poverty, and the miseries of an injudicious attachment; till, overcome with the picture of the privations I should have to endure, and the difficulties I should have to encounter, she fairly wept over the hardships of my imaginary future.
"Dinner came; but O'Byrne's place was vacant. My large tears dropped into my soup—my chicken went away untouched—I refused even my favourite apricot jelly.
"The evening, however, brought consolation, in the shape of a real, actual love-letter, sent through that most orthodox channel—my maid. I could not help reading it aloud to her. 'The barbarity of my father,'—'eternal constancy,'—how well these phrases looked on bath-post!
