"I don't know the young man," replied Mr. Crawford, with an impatient motion of his head.
"Don't know thy own son-in-law! The husband of thy daughter!"
"I have no son-in-law! No daughter!" said Crawford, with stern emphasis.
"Frances was the daughter of thy wedded wife, friend Crawford."
"But I have disowned her. I forewarned her of the consequences if she married that young man. I told her that I would cast her off for ever; and I have done it."
"But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong."
"I've said it, and I'll stick to it."
"But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford," repeated the Quaker.
"Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall the act. I gave her fair warning; but she took her own course, and now she must abide the consequences. When I say a thing, I mean it; I never eat my words."
"Friend Crawford," said the Quaker, in a steady voice and with his calm eyes fixed upon the face of the man he addressed. "Thee was wrong to say what thee did. Thee had no right to cast off thy child. I saw her to-day, passing slowly along the street. Her dress was thin and faded; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face. Ah! if thee could have seen the sadness of that countenance. Friend Crawford! she is thy child still. Thee cannot disown her."