glen with the sun flickering
through. Her mother died when she was a child of twelve, and in the
house of her uncle and her cousins she had been brought up among men and
boys.

One day Peter drew the Deemster aside and told him (with expressions
of shame, interlarded with praises of his own acuteness) a story of his
brother. It was about a girl. Her name was Mona Crellin; she lived on
the hill at Ballure House, half a mile south of Ramsey, and was
daughter of a man called Billy Ballure, a retired sea-captain, and
hail-fellow-well-met with all the jovial spirits of the town.

There was much noise and outcry, and old Iron sent for his son.

"What's this I hear?" he cried, looking him down. "A woman? So that's
what your fine learning comes to, eh? Take care, sir! take care! No son
of mine shall disgrace himself. The day he does that he will be put to
the door."

Thomas held himself in with a great effort.

"Disgrace?" he said. "What disgrace, sir, if you please?"

"What disgrace, sir?" repeated the Deemster, mocking his son in a
mincing treble. Then he roared, "Behaving dishonourably to a poor
girl--that what's disgrace, sir! Isn't it enough? eh? eh?"

"More than enough," said the young man. "But who is doing it? I'm not."

"Then you're doing worse. _Did_ I say worse? Of course I said worse.
Worse, sir, worse! Do you hear me? Worse! You are trapsing around
Ballure, and letting that poor girl take notions. I'll have no more
of it. Is this what I sent you to England for? Aren't you ashamed of
yourself? Keep your place, sir; keep your place. A poor girl's a poor
girl, and a Deemster's a Deemster."

"Yes, sir," said Thomas, suddenly firing up, "and a man's a man. As for
the shame, I need be ashamed of nothing that is not shameful; and the
best proof I can give you that I mean no dishonour by the girl is that I
intend to marry her."

"What? You intend to--what? Did I hear----"

The old Deemster turned his good ear towards his son's face, and the
young man repeated his threat. Never fear! No poor girl should be misled
by him. He was above all foolish conventions.

Old Iron Christian was dumbfounded. He gasped, he stared, he stammered,
and then fell on his son with hot reproaches.

"What? Your wife? Wife? That trollop!--that minx! that--and daughter of
that sot, too, that old rip, that rowdy blatherskite--that----And my
own son is to lift his hand to cut his throat! Yes, sir, cut his
throat----And I am to stand by