going after him slowly). For what? for what? You haven't taken
anything, Mr. Secretary! (Comes back.) He won't hear, and off he's
gone. The very sight of that quill-driver is like poison and brimstone
to me. An ugly, contraband knave, smuggled into the world by some lewd
prank of the devil--with his malicious little pig's eyes, foxy hair, and
nut-cracker chin, just as if Nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of
goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside. No!
rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may--God
forgive me!

MRS MILLER. The wretch!--but you'll be made to keep a clean tongue in
your head!

MILLER. Ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron--you, too, must
put my bristles up. You're never more stupid than when you have the most
occasion to show a little sense. What's the meaning of all that trash
about your daughter being a great lady? If it's to be cried out about
the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. He is
one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people's houses, dispute
upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with
it straight to the prince, mistress, and minister, and then there's the
devil to pay.

SCENE III.

Enter LOUISA with a book in her hand.

LOUISA. Good morning, dear father!

MILLER (affectionately). Bless thee, my Louisa! I rejoice to see thy
thoughts are turned so diligently to thy Creator. Continue so, and his
arm will support thee.

LOUISA. Oh! I am a great sinner, father! Was he not here, mother?

MRS MILLER. Who, my child?

LOUISA. Ah! I forgot that there are others in the world besides him--my
head wanders so. Was he not here? Ferdinand?

MILLER (with melancholy, serious voice). I thought my Louisa had
forgotten that name in her devotions?

LOUISA (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). I understand
you, father. I feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes
too late. I can no longer pray, father. Heaven and Ferdinand divide my
bleeding soul, and I fear--I fear--(after a pause). Yet no, no, good
father. The painter is best praised when we forget him in the
contemplation of his picture. When in the contemplation of his
masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the Creator,--is not that,
father, the true praise of God?

MILLER (throws himself in displeasure on a chair). There we have it!
Those are the fruits of your ungodly reading.

LOUISA (u