"Maybe you could tell me, young woman, whereabouts here a man lives that they call Donnel Dhu, or the Black Prophet; his real name is M'Gowan, I think."

"I ought to be able to tell you, at any rate," replied Sarah; "I'm his daughter."

The strange woman, on surveying Sarah more closely, looked as if she never intended to remove her eyes from her countenance and figure.

She seemed for a moment, as it were, to forget every other object in life--her previous conversation with Hanlon--the message on which she had been sent--and her anxiety to throw light upon the awful crime that had been committed at the spot whereon she stood. At length she sighed deeply, and appeared to recover her presence of mind, and to break through the abstraction in which she had been wrapped. "You're his daughter, you say?"

"Ay, I do say so."

"Then you know a young man by name Pierce--och, what am I sayin'!--by name Charley Hanlon?"

"To be sure I do--I'm not ashamed of knowin' Charles Hanlon."

"You have a good opinion of him, then?"

"I have a good opinion of him, but not so good as I had thought."

"Mush a why then, might one ask?"

"I'm afeard he's a cowardly crathur, and rather unmanly a thrifle. I like a man to be a man, an' not to get as white as a sheet, an' cowld as a tombstone, bekaise he hears what he thinks to be a groan at night, an'

it may be nothin' but an owld cow behind a ditch. Ha! ha! ha!"

"An' where did he hear the groan?"

"Why, here where we're standin'. Ha! ha! ha! I was thinkin' of it since, an' I did hear somethin' very like a groan; but what about it? Sich a night as last night would make any one groan that had a groan in them."

"You spoke about ditches, but sure there's no ditches here."

"Divil a matther--who cares what it was? What did you want wid my father?"

"It was yourself that I wanted to see."

"Faix, an' you've seen me, then, an' the full o' your eye you tuck out o' me. You'll know me again, I hope."

"Is your mother livin'?"

"No."

"How long is she dead, do you know?"

"I do not; I hardly remember anything about her. She died when I was a young slip--a mere child, I believe. Still," she proceeded, rather slowly, musing and putting her beautiful and taper fingers to her chin--"I think that I do remember--it's like a dhrame to me though, an'

I dunna but it is one--still it's like a dhrame to me, that I was wanst in her arms, that I was cryin', an' that she kissed me--that she kissed me! If she had lived, it's a different life maybe I'd lead an' a different creature I'd be to-day, maybe, but I never had a mother."

"Did your father marry a second time?"

"He did."

"Then you have a step-mother?"

"Ay have I."

"Is she kind to you, an' do you like her?"

"Middlin'--she's not so bad--better than I deserve, I doubt; I'm sorry for what I did to her; but then I have the divil's temper, an' have no guide o' myself when it comes on me. I know whatever she may be to me, I'm not the best step-daughter to her."

The strange female was evidently much struck with the appearance and singularly artless disposition of Sarah, as well as with her extraordinary candor; and indeed no wonder; for as this neglected creature spoke, especially with reference to her mother, her eyes flashed and softened with an expression of brilliancy and tenderness that might be said to resemble the sky at night, when the glowing corruscations of the Aurora Borealis sweep over it like expanses of lightning, or fade away into those dim but graceful undulations which fill the mind with a sense of such softness and beauty.

"I don't know," observed her companion, sighing and looking at her affectionately, "how any step-mother could be harsh to you."

"Ha! ha! ha! don't you, indeed? Faix, then, if you had me, maybe you wouldn't think so--I'm nothin' but a born divil when the fit's on me."

"Charley Hanlon," proceeded the strange woman, "bid me ax you for the ould tobaccy-box you promised him last night."

"Well, but he promised me a handkerchy; have you got it?"

"I have," replied the other, producing it; "but, then, I'm not to give it to you, unless you give me the box for it."

"But I haven't the box now," said Sarah, "how-and-ever, I'll get it for him."

"Are you sure that you can an' will?" inquired the other.

"I had it in my hand yesterday," she said, "an' if it's to be had I'll get it."

"Well, then," observed the other mildly, "as soon as you get him the box, he'll give you this handkerchy, but not till then."

"Ha!" she exclaimed, kindling, "is that his bargain; does he think I'd thrick him or cheat him?--hand it here."

"I can't," replied the other; "I'm only to give it to you when I get the box."

"Hand it here, I say," returned Sarah, whose eyes flashed in a moment; "it's Peggy Murray's rag, I suppose--hand it here, I bid you."

The woman shook her head and replied, "I can't--not till you get the box."

Sarah replied not a word, but sprang at it, and in a minute had it in her hands.

"I would tear it this minute into ribbons," she exclaimed, with eyes of fire and glowing cheeks, "and tramp it undher my feet too; only that I want it to show her, that I may have the advantage over her."

There was a sharp, fierce smile of triumph on her features as she spoke; and altogether her face sparkled with singular animation and beauty.

"G.o.d bless me!" said the strange woman, looking at her with a wondering yet serious expression of countenance; "I wanst knew a face like yours, an' a temper the aiquil of it--at any rate, my good girl, you don't pay much respect to a stranger. Is your stepmother at home?"

"She is not, but my father is; however, I don't think he'll see you now.

My stepmother's gone to Darby Skinadre, the meal-monger's."

"I'm goin' there."

"An' if you see her," replied the other, "you'll know her; a score on her cheek--ha, ha, ha; an' when you see it, maybe you'll thank G.o.d that I am not your step-daughter."

"Isn't there a family named Sullivan that lives not far from Skinadre's?"