fond of. A princely
household he might have, nobly maintained, and perfect in all its
details, but with good management, girl. You must remember that, Polly."

She started at this direct appeal to herself; and, as her cheeks grew
crimson with conscious shame, she turned away to avoid his glance,--not
that the precaution was needed, for he was far too much immersed in his
own thoughts to observa her. Polly had on more than one occasion seen
through the ambitious schemes of her father. She had detected many
a deep-laid plot he had devised to secure for her that eminence and
station he longed for. Deep and painful were the wounds of her offended
pride at the slights, the insults of these defeated plans. Resentments
that were to last her lifetime had grown of them, and in her heart a
secret grudge towards that class from which they sprung. Over and over
had she endeavored to summon up courage to tell him that, to her, these
schemes were become hateful; that all dignity, all self-respect,
were sacrificed in this unworthy struggle. At last came the moment of
hardihood; and in a few words, at first broken and indistinct, but more
assured and distinct as she went on, she said that she, at least, could
never partake in his ambitious views.

"I have seen you yourself, father, after a meeting with one of
these--these high and titled personages, come home pale, careworn, and
ill. The contumely of their manner had so offended you that you sat down
to your meal without appetite. You could not speak to me; or, in a few
words you dropped, I could read the bitter chagrin that was corroding
your heart. You owned to me, that in the very moment of receiving favors
from you, they never forgot the wide difference of rank that separated
you,--nay more, that they accepted your services as a rightful homage
to their high estate, and made you feel a kind of serfdom in your very
generosity."

"Why all this? To what end do you tell me these things, girl?" cried he,
angrily, while his cheek trembled with passion.

"Because if I conceal them longer,--if I do not speak them,--they will
break my heart," said she, in an accent of deepest emotion; "because the
grief they give me has worn me to very wretchedness. Is it not clear
to you, father, that they wish none of us,--that our blood is not their
blood, nor our traditions their traditions?"

"Hold--stop--be silent, I say, or you will drive me distracted," said
he, grasping her wrist in a paroxysm