nt a
blush of resentment rose into his cheeks, and he felt tempted to call
his daughter back that he might express this sentiment: it was but of a
moment's duration, however, and grief, at what he felt was the first
altercation he had ever had with his child, succeeded, and stifled all
other emotions. He flung himself into the chair, and, dropping his
forehead upon his hand, gave way to the full tide of his feelings. His
spirits gradually became more composed, and he was able to survey with a
somewhat temperate judgment the scene that had just passed. His manner,
he thought, might have been too peremptory--perhaps it was harsh, and
had offended his daughter's pride: he should have been more conciliatory
in his speech. "The old," he said, "are not fit counsellors to the
young; we forget the warmth of their passions, and would reason when
they only feel. How small a share has prudence in the concerns of the
heart!" But then this unexpected fervor of devotion to Butler--that
alarmed him, and he bit his lip, as he felt his anger rising with the
thought. "Her repugnance to Tyrrel, her prompt rejection of his suit,
her indignant contempt for the man, even that I could bear with
patience," he exclaimed. "I seek not to trammel her will by any
authority of mine. But this Butler! Oh! there is the beginning of the
curse upon my house! there is the fate against which I have been so
solemnly warned! That man who had been the author of this unhappiness,
and whose alliance with my name has been denounced by the awful
visitation of the dead,--that Mildred should cherish his regard, is
misery. It cannot and shall not be!"

These and many such reflections passed through Lindsay's mind, and had
roused his feelings to a tone of exacerbation against Arthur Butler, far
surpassing any displeasure he had ever before indulged against this
individual. In the height of this self-communion he was interrupted by
the return of Mildred to the apartment, almost as abruptly as she had
quitted it. She approached his chair, knelt, laid her head upon his lap,
and wept aloud.

"Why, my dear father," she said, at length, looking up in his face while
the tears rolled down her cheeks, "why do you address language to me
that makes me forget the duty I owe you? If you knew my heart, you would
spare and pity my feelings. Pardon me, dear father, if my conduct has
offended you. I knew not what I spoke; I am wretched, and cannot answer
for my words. Do not think