bath frustrated the ordinances of a higher wisdom! Well, father?     

       OLD M. I will write to him that I withdraw my protection.     

       FRANCIS. That would be wise and prudent.     

       OLD M. That he must never come into my sight again     

       FRANCIS. 'Twill have a most salutary effect.     

       OLD M. (tenderly). Until he reforms.     

       FRANCIS. Right, quite right. But suppose that he comes disguised in the hypocrite's mask, implores your compassion with tears, and wheedles from you a pardon, then quits you again on the morrow, and jests at your weakness in the arms of his harlot. No, my father! He will return of his own accord, when his conscience awakens him to repentance.     

       OLD M. I will write to him, on the spot, to that effect.     

       FRANCIS. Stop, father, one word more. Your just indignation might prompt reproaches too severe, words which might break his heart—and then—do you not think that your deigning to write with your own hand might be construed into an act of forgiveness? It would be better, I think, that you should commit the task to me?     

       OLD M. Do it, my son. Ah! it would, indeed, have broken my heart! Write to him that—     

       FRANCIS (quickly). That's agreed, then?     

       OLD M. Say that he has caused me a thousand bitter tears—a thousand sleepless nights—but, oh! do not drive my son to despair!     

       FRANCIS. Had you not better retire to rest, father? This affects you too strongly.     

       OLD M. Write to him that a father's heart—But I charge you, drive him not to despair. [Exit in sadness.]     

       FRANCIS (looking after him with a chuckle). Make thyself easy, old dotard! thou wilt never more press thy darling to thy bosom—there is a gulf between thee and him impassable as heaven is from hell. He was torn from thy arms before even thou couldst have dreamed it 

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