With a strong effort the young man threw off the yoke of a
self-taught restraint, and asserted his true nature. "Has O'Neil
written?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"Then, father," he continued, "I prefer the certainty of my present
life to the uncertainty of the old. I will not dissolve my
connection with the Friends by a shock which might give thee
trouble; but I will slowly work away from them. Notice will be
taken of my ways; there will be family visitations, warnings, and
the usual routine of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret
Alison, nobody will be surprised at my being read out of meeting.
I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing has gone on
about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be either a man
or a milksop."
The color rose to Henry Donnelly's cheeks, and his eyes flashed,
but he showed no signs of anger. He moved to De Courcy's side and
laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Patience, my boy!" he said. "It's the old blood, and I might have
known it would proclaim itself. Suppose I were to shut my eyes to
thy ridings, and thy merry-makings, and thy worldly company.
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