"In G.o.d's name, Jerry," asked her mother, looking from father to daughter in a state of much distress, "what is wrong, or what has happened to put you in such a condition? I see by the anger in your eye an' the whiteness of your cheeks, barrin' the little red spot in the middle, that something out o' the way all out has happened to vex you."

"You may well say so, Bridget," he replied; "but when I tell you that I came upon that undutiful daughter of ours coortin' wid the son of the man that murdhered her uncle--my only brother--you won't be surprised at the state you see me in--coortin' wid a fellow that Dan M'Gowan here knows will be hanged yet, for he's jist afther tellin' him so."

"You're ravin', Jerry," exclaimed his wife, who appeared to feel the matter as incredible; "you don't mane to tell me that she'd spake to, or know, or make any freedoms whatsomever wid young Condy Dalton, the son of her uncle's murdherer? Hut, no, Jerry, don't say that, at all events--any disgrace but that--death, the grave--or--or anything--but sich an unnatural curse as that would be."

"I found them together behind the garden not many minutes ago," replied Sullivan. "Donnel here seen them as well as I did--deny it she can't; an' now let her say what brought her there to meet him, or rather what brought him all the way to meet her? Answer me that, you disgrace to the name--answer me at wanst!"

The poor girl trembled and became so weak as to be scarcely able to stand: in fact, she durst not raise her eye to meet that of either parent, but stood condemned and incapable of utterance.

The night had now nearly set in, and one of her little sisters entered with a rush candle in her hand, the light of which, as it fell dimly and feebly on the group, gave to the proceedings a wild and impressive appearance. The prophecy-man, with his dark, stern look, peculiar nose, and black raven hair that fell thickly over his shoulders, contrasted strongly with the fair, artless countenance and beautiful figure of the girl who stood beside him, whilst over opposite them were Sullivan himself and his wife, their faces pale with sorrow, anxiety, and indignation.

"Give me the candle," proceeded her father; "hand it to me, child, and leave the room; then," he proceeded, holding it up to a great-coat of frieze which hung against the wall--"there's his coat--there's my lovin'

brother's coat; look upon it now, an' ax yourself what do you desarve for meeting against our will an' consint the son of him that has the murdher of the man that owned it on his hands an' on his heart? What do you desarve, I say?"

The girl spoke not, but the black prophet, struck by the words and the unexpected appearance of the murdered man's coat, started; in a moment, however, he composed himself, and calmly turned his eyes upon Sullivan, who proceeded to address his daughter.

"You have nothing to say, then? You're guilty, an' of coorse you have no excuse to make; however, I'll soon put an end to all this. Bring me a prayerbook. If your book oath can bind you down against ever----"

He could proceed no further. On uttering the last words, his daughter tottered, and would have fallen to the ground, had not Donnel Dhu caught her in his arms. She had, in fact, become almost insensible from excess of shame and over excitement, and, as Donnel carried her towards a bed that was in the corner of the room, her head lay over against his face.

It is unnecessary to say that Sullivan's indignation was immediately lost in alarm. On bringing the candle near her, the first thing they observed were streaks of blood upon Donnel Dhu's face, that gave to it, in connection with the mark of the blow he had received, a frightful and hideous expression.

"What is this?" exclaimed her mother, seizing the candle and holding it to the beautiful features of her trembling daughter, which were now also dabbled with blood. "In G.o.d's name, what ails my child? O Mave, Mave, my darlin', what's come over you? Blessed mother of marcy, what blood is this? _Achora, machree_, Mave, spake to! me--to the mother that 'ud go distracted, an' that will, too, if anything's wrong wid you. It was cruel in you, Jerry, to spake to; her so harsh as you did, an' to take her to task before a sthranger in such a cuttin' manner. Saiver of Airth, Mave, darlin', won't you spake to me, to your own mother?"'

"Maybe I did spake to her too severely," said the father, now relenting, "an' if I did, may G.o.d forgive me; for sure you know, Bridget, I wouldn't injure a hair of my darlin's head. But this blood! this blood!

oh, where did it come from?"

Her weakness, however, proved of but short duration, and their apprehension was soon calmed. Mave looked around her rather wildly, and no sooner had her eyes rested on Donnel Dhu than she shrieked aloud, and turning her face away from him, with something akin to fear and horror, she flung herself into her mother's arms, exclaiming, as she hid her face in her bosom: "Oh save me from that man; don't let! him near me; don't let him touch me. I can't tell why, but I'm deadly afraid of him.

What blood is that upon his face? Father, stand between us!"

"Foolish girl!" exclaimed her father, "you don't know what you're sayin'. Of coorse, Donnel, you'll not heed her words for, indeed, she hasn't come to herself yet. But, in G.o.d's name, where did this blood come from that's upon you and her?"

"You can't suppose, Jerry," said Donnel, "that the poor girl's words would make me take any notice of them. She has been too much frightened, and won't know, maybe in a few minutes, that she spoke them at all."

"That's thrue," said her mother; "but with regard to the blood----"

She was about to proceed, when Mave rose up, and requested to be taken out of the room.

"Bring me to the kitchen," said she, "I'm afraid; and see this blood, mother."

Precisely as she spoke, a few drops of blood fell from her nose, which, of course, accounted for its appearance on Donnel's face, and probably for her terror also at his repulsive aspect.

"What makes you afeard of poor Donnel, asth.o.r.e?" asked her mother--"a man that wouldn't injure a hair of your head, nor of one belongin' to you, an' never did."

"Why, when my father," she returned, "spoke about the coat there, an'

just as Donnel started, I looked at it, an' seen it movin', I don't know why, but I got afeard of him."

Sullivan held up the candle mechanically, as she spoke, towards the coat, upon which they all naturally gazed; but, whether from its dim flickering light, or the force of imagination, cannot be determined, one thing was certain, the coat appeared actually to move again, as if disturbed by some invisible hand. Again, also, the prophet involuntary started, but only for a single moment.

"Tut," said he, "it's merely the unsteady light of the candle; show it here."

He seized the rushlight from Sullivan, and approaching the coat, held it so close to it, that had there been the slightest possible motion, it could not have escaped their observation.

"Now," he added, "you see whether it moves or not; but, indeed, the poor girl is so frightened by the great scowldin' she got, that I don't wondher at the way she's in."

Mrs. Sullivan kept still gazing at the coat, in a state of terror almost equal to that of her daughter.

"Well," said she, "I've often heard it said that one is sometimes to disbelieve their own eyes; an' only that I known the thing couldn't happen, I would swear on the althar that I seen it movin'."

"I thought so myself, too," observed Sullivan, who also seemed to have been a good deal perplexed and awed by the impression; "but of coorse I agree wid Donnel, that it was the unsteady light of the rush that made us think so; howaniver, it doesn't matther now; move or no move, it won't bring him that owned it back to us, so G.o.d rest him!--and now, Bridget, thry an' get us some-thin' to ait."

"Before the girl leaves the room," said the prophecy man, "let me spake what I think an' what I know. I've lost many a weary day an' night in studyin' the further, an' in lookin' into what's to come. I must spake, then, what I think an' what I know, regardin' her. I must; for when the feelin' is on me, I can't keep the prophecy back."

"Oh! let me go, mother," exclaimed the alarmed girl; "let me go; I can't bear to look at him."

"One minute, acushla, till you hear what he has to say to you," and she held her back, with a kind of authoritative violence, as Mave attempted to leave the room.

"Don't be alarmed my purty creature," spoke the prophet; "don't be alarmed at what I'm goin' to say to you, an' about you, for you needn't.

I see great good fortune before you. I see a grand an' handsome husband at your side, and a fine house to live in. I see stairs, an' carpets, an' horses, an' hounds, an' yourself, with jewels in your white little ears, an' silks, an' satins on your purty figure. That's a wakin' dhrame I had, an' you may all mark my words, if it doesn't come out thrue; it's on the leaf, an' the leaf was open to me. Grandeur an' wealth is before her, for her beauty an' her! goodness will bring it all about, an' so I read it."

"An' what about the husband himself?" asked the mother, whose affections caused! her to feel a strong interest in anything that might concern the future interest of her daughter; "can you tell us nothing about his appearance, that we might give a guess at him?"

"No," replied M'Gowan, for such was the prophet's name, "not to you; to none but herself can I give the marks an' tokens that will enable her to know the man that is to be her husband when she sees him; and to herself, in the mornin', I will, before I go that is if she'll allow me--for what is written in the dark book ought to be read and expounded.

Her beauty an' her goodness will do it all!"

The man's words were uttered m a voice so replete with those soft and insinuating tones that so powerfully operate upon the female heart; they breathed, too such an earnest spirit of good will, joined to an evident admiration of the beauty and goodness he alluded to, that the innocent girl, not-withstanding her previous aversion, felt something like gratification at what he said, not on account ol the prospects held out to her, but because of the singular charm and affectionate spirit which breathed in his voice; or, might it not have been that delicate influence of successful flattery which so gently pervades the heart of woman, and soothes that vanity which unconsciously lurks in the very purest and most innocent of the s.e.x? So far from being flattered by his predictions, she experienced a strong sensation of disappointment, because she knew where her affections at that moment rested, and felt persuaded that if she were destined to enjoy the grandeur shadowed out for her, it never could be with him whom she then loved. Notwithstanding all this, she felt her repugnance against the prophet strongly counterbalanced by the strange influence he began to exercise over her; and with this impression she and they pa.s.sed to the kitchen, where in a few minutes she was engaged in preparing food for him, with a degree of good feeling that surprised herself.

There is scarcely anything so painful to hearts naturally generous, like those of the Sullivans, as the contest between the shame and exposure of the conscious poverty on the one hand, and the anxiety to indulge in a hospitable spirit on the other. n.o.body unacquainted with Ireland could properly understand the distress of mind which this conflict almost uniformly produces. On the present occasion it was deeply felt by this respectable but declining family, and Mave, the ingenuous and kind-hearted girl, felt much of her unaccountable horror of this man removed by its painful exercise. Still her aversion was not wholly overcome, although much diminished; for, ever as she looked at his swollen and disfigured face, and thought of the mysterious motions of the murdered man's coat, she could not avoid turning away her eyes, and wishing that she had not seen him that evening. The scanty meal was at length over; a meal on which many a young eye dwelt with those yearning looks that take their character from the hungry and wolfish spirit which marks the existence of a "hard year," as it is called in our unfortunate country, and which, to a benevolent heart, forms such a sorrowful subject for contemplation. Poor Bridget Sullivan did all in her power to prevent this evident longing from being observed by M'Gowan, by looking significantly, shaking' her head, and knitting her brows, at the children; and when these failed she had recourse to threatening att.i.tudes, and all kinds of violent gestures: and on these proving also unsuccessful, she was absolutely forced to speak aloud--

"Come, childhre, start out now, an' play yourselves; be off, I say, an'

don't stand ready to jump down the daicent man's throat wid every bit he aits."

She then drove them abroad somewhere, but as the rain fell heavily the poor creatures were again forced to return, and resume their pitiable watch until the two men had finished their scanty repast.

Seated around the dull and uncomfortable fire, the whole family now forgot the hunger and care for a time, in the wild legends with which M'Gowan entertained them, until the hour of rest.

"We haven't the best bed in the world," observed Sullivan, "nor the best bed-clothes aither, but, as I said before, I wish, for all our sakes, they were betther. You must take your chance with these two slips o'

boys to-night as well as you can. If you wish to tumble in now you may; or, may be you'd join us in our prayers. We sthrive, G.o.d! help us, to say a Rosary every night; for, afther all, there's nothin' like puttin'

oneself! undher the holy protection of the Almighty, blessed be His name! Indeed, this sickness that's goin' is so rife and dangerous that it's good to sthrive to be prepared, as it is indeed, whatever comes, whether hunger or plenty, sickness or health; an' may G.o.d keep us prepared always!"

M'Gowan seemed for a moment at a loss, but almost immediately said in reply--

"You are right, Jerry, but as for me, I say whatever prayers I do say, always by myself; for I can then get my mind fixed upon them betther.

I'll just turn into bed, then, for troth I feel a little stiff and tired; so you must only let me have my own way to-night. To-morrow night I'll pray double." He then withdrew to his appointed place of rest, where, after having partially undressed himself, he lay down, and for some time could hear no other sound than the solemn voices of this struggling and afflicted little fold, as they united in offering up their pious and simple act of worship to that Great Being, in whose providential care they felt such humble and confiding trust.

When their devotions were concluded, they quietly, and in a spirit at once of resignation and melancholy, repaired to their respective sleeping places, with the exception of old Sullivan himself, who, after some hesitation, took down the great coat already so markedly alluded to--and exclaiming, partly to those within hearing--

"I don't know--but still there can't be any harm in it; sure it's betther that it should be doin' some good than hangin' up there idle, against the wall, such a night as this. Here, Dan, for the first time since I put it up wid my own hands, except to shake the dust off of it, I'm goin' to turn this big coat to some use. There," he added, spreading it over them; "let it help to keep you warm to-night--for G.o.d knows, you want it, you an' them poor gorsoons. Your coverin' is but light, an'