“My lord, I reply to you in one word—­he IS MY FRIEND.”

A shade of bitterness passed over the old man’s face as he turned a melancholy look upon Dunroe.

“May you never live, Dunroe,” he said, “to see your only son refuse to comply with your dying request, or to listen with an obedient I spirit to your parting admonition.  It is true, I am not, I trust, immediately dying, and yet why should I regret it?  But, at the same time, I feel that my steps are upon the very threshold of death—­a consideration which ought to insure obedience to my wishes in any heart not made callous by the worst experiences of life.”

“I would comply with your wishes, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “with the sincerest pleasure, and deny myself anything to oblige you; but in what you ask there is a principle involved, which I cannot, as a man of honor, violate.  And, besides, I really could not afford to part with him now.  My affairs are in such a state, and he is so well acquainted with them, that to do so would ruin me.”

His father, who seemed wrapt in some painful reflection, paid no attention to this reply, which, in point of fact, contained, so far as Norton was concerned, a confirmation of the old man’s worst suspicions.  His chin had sunk on his breast, and looking into the palms of his hands as he held them clasped together, he could not prevent the tears from rolling slowly down his furrowed cheeks.  At length he exclaimed: 

“My child, Emily, my child! how will I look upon thee!  My innocent, my affectionate angel; what, what, oh what will become of thee?  But it cannot be.  My guilt was not premeditated.  What I did I did in ignorance; and why should we suffer through the arts of others?  I shall oppose them step by step should they proceed.  I shall leave no earthly resource untried to frustrate their designs; and if they are successful, the cruel sentence may be pronounced, but it will be over my grave.  I could never live to witness the sufferings of my darling and innocent child.  My lamp of life is already all but exhausted—­this would extinguish it forever.”

He then raised his head, and after wiping away the tears, spoke to his son as follows: 

“Dunroe, be advised by me; reform your life; set your house in order, for you know not, you see not, the cloud which is likely to burst over our heads.”

“I don’t understand you, my lord.”

“I know you do not, nor is it my intention that you should for the present; but if you are wise, you will be guided by my instructions and follow my advice.”

When Dunroe left him, which he did after some formal words of encouragement and comfort, to which the old man paid little attention, turning toward the door, which his son on going out had shut, he looked as if his eye followed him beyond the limits of the room, and exclaimed: