"Now, in the divil's name," he asked, "what brought you here?"

"Father," she replied, "hear me, and do not be angry, for I know--at laste I think--that what I am goin' to say to you is right."

"Well, madame, let us hear what you have to say."

"I will--an' I must spake plain, too. You know me; that I cannot think one thing and say another."

"Yes, I know you very well--go on--ay, and so does your unfortunate step-mother."

"Oh--well!" she replied--"yes, I suppose so--ha! ha!" In a moment, however, her face became softened with deep feeling; "O, father," she proceeded, "maybe you don't know me, nor she either; it's only now I'm beginnin' to know myself. But listen--I have often observed your countenance, father--I have often marked it well. I can see by you when you are pleased or angry--but that's aisy; I can tell, too, when the bad spirit is up in you by the pale face but black look that scarcely any one could mistake. I have seen every thing bad, father, in your face--bad temper, hatred, revenge--an' but seldom any thing good.

Father, I'm your daughter, an' don't be angry!"

"What, in the devil's name, are you drivin' at, you brazen jade?"

"Father, you said this mornin', before you came out, that you felt your conscience troublin' you for not discoverin' the murdher of Sullivan; that you felt sorry for keepin' it to yourself so long--sorry!--you said you were sorry, father!"

"I did, and I was."

"Father, I have been thinkin' of that since; no, father--your words were false; there was no sorrow in your face, nor in your eye,--no, father, nor in your heart. I know that--I feel it. Father, don't look so: you may bate me, but I'm not afraid."

"Go home out o'this," he replied--"be off, and carry your cursed madness and nonsense somewhere else."

"Father, here I stand--your own child--your only daughter; look me in the face--let your eye look into mine, if you can. I challenge you to it! Now mark my words--you are goin' to swear a murdher against the head of a poor and distressed family--to swear it--and, father, you know he never murdhered Sullivan!"

The Prophet started and became pale, but he did not accept the challenge.

He looked at her, however, after a struggle to recover his composure, and there she stood firm--erect; her beautiful face animated with earnestness, her eyes glowing with singular l.u.s.tre, yet set, and sparkling in the increasing moisture which a word or thought would turn into tears.

"What do you mane, Sarah?" said he, affecting coolness; "What do you mane? I know! Explain yourself."

"Father, I will. There was a bad spirit in your face and in your heart when you said you were sorry; that you repented for consalin' the murdher so long; there was, father, a bad spirit in your heart, but no repentance there!"

"An' did you come all the way from home to tell me this?"

"No, father, not to tell you what I have said, but, father, dear, what I am goin' to say; only first answer me. If he did murdher Sullivan, was it in his own defence? was it a cool murdher? a cowardly murdher?

because if it was, Condy Dalton is a bad man. But still listen: it's now near two-an'-twenty years since the deed was done. I know little about religion, father; you know that; but still I have heard that G.o.d is willin' to forgive all men their sins if they repent of them; if they're sorry for them. Now, father, it's well known that for many a long year Condy Dalton has been in great sorrow of heart for something or other; can man do more?"

"Go home out o' this, I say; take yourself away."

"Oh, who can tell, father, the inward agony and bitther repentance that that sorrowful man's heart, maybe, has suffered. Who can tell the tears he shed, the groans he groaned, the prayers for mercy he said, maybe, and the worlds he would give to have that man that he killed--only by a hasty blow, maybe--again alive and well! Father, don't prosecute him; leave the poor heartbroken ould man to G.o.d! Don't you see that G.o.d has already taken him an' his into His hands; hasn't He punished them a hundred ways for years? Haven't they been brought down, step by step, from wealth an' respectability, till they're now like poor beggars, in the very dust? Oh, think, father, dear father, think of his white hairs; think of his pious wife, that every one respects; think of his good-hearted, kind daughters; think of their poverty, and all they have suffered so long; an' above all, oh, think, father dear, of what they will suffer if you are the manes of takin' that sorrowful white-haired ould man out from the middle of his poor, but lovin' and dacent and respected family, and hangin' him for an act that he has repented for, maybe, and that we ought to hope the Almighty himself has forgiven him for. Father, I go on my knees to you to beg that you won't prosecute this ould man; but leave him to G.o.d!"

As she uttered the last few sentences, the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks; but when she knelt--which she did--her tears ceased to flow, and she looked up into her father's face with eyes kindled into an intense expression, and her hands clasped as if her own life and everlasting salvation depended upon his reply.

"Go home, I desire you," he replied, with a cold sneer, for he had now collected himself, and fell back into his habitual snarl; "Go home, I desire you, or maybe you'd wish to throw yourself in the way of that young profligate that I was spakin' to when you came up. Who knows, affcher all, but that's your real design, and neither pity nor compa.s.sion for ould Dalton."

"Am I his daughter?" she replied, whilst she started to her feet, and her dark eyes flashed with disdain: "Can I be his daughter?"

"I hope you don't mean to cast a slur upon your--." He paused a moment and started as if a serpent had bitten him; but left the word "mother"

unuttered.

Again she softened, and her eyes filled with tears. "Father, I never had a mother!" she said.

"No," he replied; "or if you had, her name will never come through my lips."

She looked at him with wonder for a few moments, after which she turned, and with a face of melancholy and sorrow, proceeded with slow and meditating steps in the direction of their humble cabin.

Her father, who felt considerably startled by some portions of her appeal, though by no means softened, again directed his steps towards the garden gate, where he left young d.i.c.k standing. Here he found this worthy young gentleman awaiting his return, and evidently amazed at the interview between him and his daughter; for although he had been at too great a distance to hear their conversation, he could, and did see, by the daughter's att.i.tudes, that the subject of their conversation was extraordinary, and consequently important.

On approaching him, the Prophet now, with his usual coolness, pulled out the tress which he had, in some manner, got from _Gra Gal_ Sullivan, and holding it for a time, placed it in d.i.c.k's hands.

"There's one proof," said he, alluding to a previous part of their conversation, "that I wasn't unsuccessful, and, indeed, I seldom am, when I set about a thing in earnest."

"But is it possible," asked the other, "that she actually gave this lovely tress willingly--you swear that?"

"As Heaven's above me," replied the Prophet, "there never was a ringlet sent by woman to man with more love than she sent that. Why, the purty creature actually shed tears, and begged of me to lose no time in givin'

it. You have it now, at all events--an' only for young Dalton's outrage, you'd have had it before now."

"Then there's no truth in the report that she's fond of him?"

"Why--ahem--n--no--oh, no--not now--fond of him she was, no doubt; an'

you know it's never hard to light a half-burned turf, or a candle that was lit before. If they could be got out of the counthry, at all events--these Daltons--it would be so much out of your way, for between, you an' me, I can tell you that your life won't be safe when he comes to know that you have put his nose out of joint with the _Gra Gal_."

"It is strange, however, that she should change so soon!"

"Ah, Master Richard! how little you know of woman, when you say so.

They're a vain, uncertain, selfish crew--women are--there's no honesty in them, nor I don't think there's a woman alive that could be trusted, if you only give her temptation and opportunity; none of them will stand that."

"But how do you account for the change in her case, I ask?"

"I'll tell you that. First and foremost, you're handsome--remarkably handsome."

"Come, come, no nonsense, Donnel; get along, will you, ha! ha!

ha!--handsome indeed! Never you mind what the world says--well!"

"Why," replied the other, gravely, "there's no use in denyin' it, you know; it's a matther that tells for itself, an' that a poor girl with eyes in her head can judge of as a rich one--at any rate, if you're not handsome, you're greatly belied; an' every one knows that there's never smoke without fire."

"Well, confound you!--since they'll have it so, I suppose I may as well admit it--I believe I am a handsome dog, and I have reason to know that, that----" here he shook his head and winked knowingly: "Oh, come Donnel, my boy, I can go no further on that subject--ha! ha! ha!"

"There is no dispute about it," continued Donnel, gravely; "but still I think, that if it was not for the mention made of the dress, an'

grandeur, and state that she was to come to, she'd hardly turn round as she did. Dalton, you know, is the handsomest young fellow, barring yourself, in the parish; an' troth on your account an' hers, I wish he was out of it. He'll be crossin' you--you may take my word for it--an' a dangerous enemy he'll prove--that I know."

"Why? what do you mean?" Here the prophet, who was artfully trying to fill the heart of his companion with a spirit of jealousy against Dalton, paused for a moment, as if in deep reflection, after which he sighed heavily. "Mane!" he at length replied; "I am unhappy in my mind, an' I know I ought to do it, an' yet I'm loth now after sich a length of time. Mane, did you say, Masther Richard?"

"Yes, I said so, and I say so; what do you mean by telling me that young Dalton will be a dangerous enemy to me?"

"An' so he will; an' so he would to any one that he or his bore ill-will against. You know there's blood upon their hands."

"No, I don't know any such thing; I believe he was charged with the murder of Mave Sullivan's uncle, but as the body could not be found, there were no grounds for a prosecution. I don't, therefore, know that there's blood upon his hand."