"Young and ould, _achushla machree_, is fallin' about us in every direction; but may the Father of Mercy spare you to us, my darlin'

child, for if anything was to happen you, where--Oh, where could we look upon your aiquil, or find anything that could console us for your loss?"

"If it's my fate to go, father, I'll go, an if it isn't G.o.d will take care of me; whatever comes, I'm resigned to His will."

"Ay, dear, an' you ever wor, too--and for the same raison G.o.d's blessin'

will be upon you; but what makes you look so low, avourneen? I trust in my Saviour, you are not unwell, Mave, dear."

"Thanks be to G.o.d, no, father; but there's a thing on my mind, that's distressin' me very much, an' I hope you'll allow me my way in it."

"I may say so, dear; because I know you wouldn't ax me for anything that 'ud be wrong to grant you. What is it, Mave?"

"It's the unhappy an' miserable state that these poor Daltons is in,"

she replied. "Father, dear, forgive me for what I'm about to say; for, although it may make you angry, there's nothin' farther from my heart than to give you offence."

"You needn't tell me so, Mave; you need not, indeed; but sure you know, darlin', that unfortunately, we have nothing in our power to do for them; I wish to the Lord we had! Didn't we do all that people in our poor condition could do for them? Didn't you, yourself, achora, make us send them such little a.s.sistance as we could spare?--ay, even to sharin'

I may say, our last morsel wid them; an' now, darlin', you know we haven't it."

"I know that," she replied, as she wiped away the tears; "where is there a poorer family than we are, sure enough? but, father, dear; we can a.s.sist them--relieve them; ay, maybe save them--for all that."

"G.o.d be praised then!" exclaimed Sullivan; "only show me how, an' we'll be glad to do it; for I can forget everything now, Mave, but their distress."

"But do you know the condition they're in at this moment?" she asked, "do you know, father, that they're stretched on the bed of sickness? I mean Nancy an'--an' young Con, who has got into a relapse; poor Mary is scarcely able to go about, she's so badly recovered from the fever; an'

Tom, the wild unfortunate young man, is out of his senses, they say.

Then there's n.o.body to look to them but Mrs. Dalton herself; an' she, you know, has to go 'out' to ask their poor bit from the neighbors. Only think," she proceeded, with a fresh burst of sorrow, "oh, only think, father, of sich a woman bein' forced to this!"

"May the Lord pity her an' them, this woeful day!" exclaimed Sullivan.

"Now, father," proceeded Mave; "I know--oh who knows better or so well--what a good an' a kind an' a forgivin' heart you have; an' I know that even in spite of the feelin' that was, and maybe is, upon your mind against them, you'll grant me my wish in what I'm goin' to ask."

"What is it then?--let me hear it."

"It's this: you know that here, in our family I can do nothing to help ourselves--that is, there is nothing for me to do--an' I feel the time hang heavy on my hands. I have been thinkin', father dear, of this miserable state the poor Daltons is in, without any one to attend them in their sickness--to say a kind word to them, or to hand them even a drink of clean water, if they wanted it. Them that hasn't got the fever yet, won't go near them for fear of catchin' it. What, then, will become of them? There they are, without the face, or hand, or voice of kindness about them. Oh, what on G.o.d's blessed earth will become of them? They may die an' they must die, for want of care and a.s.sistance."

"But sure that's not our fault, dear Mave; we can't help them."

"We can, father--an' we must; for if we don't they'll die. Father," she added, laying her wasted hand in his; "it is my intention to go over to them--an' as I have nothing that I can do at home, to spend the greater part of the day with them in takin' care of them--an'--an' in doin' what I can for them, Yes, father dear--it is my intention--for there is none but me to do it for them."

"Saviour of earth, Mave dear, is it mad you are? You, _achora machree_, that's! dearer to us all than the apple of our eye, or the very pulse of our hearts--to let you into a plague-house--to let you near the deadly faver that's upon them--where you'd be sure to catch it; an' then--oh, blessed Father. Mave what's come over you, to think of sich a thing?--ay, or to think that we'd let you expose yourself? But it's all the goodness and kindness of your affectionate heart; put it out of your head, however--don't name it, or let us hear of it again."

"But, father, it's a duty that our religion teaches us."

"Why--what's come over you, Mave?--all at wanst too--you that was so much afeard of it that you wouldn't go on a windy side of a feverish house, nor walk near any one that was even recoverin' from it. Why, what's come over you?"

"Simply, father, the thought if I don't go to them and help them, they will die. I was afeard of the fever, and I am afeard of it--but am I to let my own foolish fears prevent me from doin' the part of a Christian to them? Let us put ourselves in their place--an' who knows--although may G.o.d forbid!--but it may be our own before the season pa.s.ses--suppose it was our own case--an' that all the world was afeard to come near us; oh, what would we think of any one, man or woman, that trustin' in G.o.d, would set their own fears at defiance, an' come to our relief."

"Mave, I couldn't think of it; if anything happened you, an' that we lost you, I never would lay my head down without the bitther thought that I had a hand in your death."

At this moment, the mother who had been in another room, came in to the kitchen--and having listened for a minute to the subject of their conversation, she immediately joined her husband; but still with feelings of deep and almost tearful sympathy for the Daltons.

"It's like her, poor affectionate girl," she exclaimed, looking tenderly at her daughter; "but it's a thing, Mave, we could never think of; so put it out of your head."

She approached her mother, and, seizing her hands, exclaimed:--

"Oh, mother, for the sake of the livin' G.o.d, make it your own case!--think of it--bring it home to you--look into the frightful state they're in. Are they to die in a Christian country for want of some kind person to attend upon them? Is it not our duty, when we know how they are sufferin'? I cannot rest, or be at ease; an' I am not afeard of fever here. You may say I love young Condy Dalton, an' that it is on his account I am wishin' to go. Maybe it is; an' I will now tell you at wanst, that I do love him, and that if it was the worst plague that ever silenced the noise of life in a whole country, it wouldn't prevent me from goin' to his relief, nor to the relief of any one belongin' to him."

"I know," said her father, "that that was at the bottom of it."

"I do love him," she continued, "an' this is more than ever I had courage to tell you openly before; but, father, I feel that I am called upon here to go to their a.s.sistance, and to see that they don't die from neglect in a Christian country. I have trust an' confidence in the Almighty G.o.d. I am not afeard of fever now; and even if I take it an'

die, you both know that I'll die in actin' the part of a Christian girl; an' what brighter hope could anything bring to us than the happiness that such a death would open to me? But here I feel that the strength and protection of G.o.d is upon me, and I will not die."

"That's all very well Mave," said her mother; "but if you took it, and did die--oh, darlin'------"

"In G.o.d's name, then, I'll take my chance, an' do the duty that I feel myself called upon to do; and, father dear, just think for a minute--the thrue Christian doesn't merely forgive the injury but returns good for evil; and then, above all things, let us make it our own case. As I said before, if we were as they are--lyin' racked with pain, burnin' with druth, the head splittin', the whole strength gone--not able, maybe, to spake, and hardly able to make a sign--to wake ourselves, to put a drink to our lips;--suppose, I say, we wor lyin' in this state, an' that all the world had deserted us--oh, wouldn't we say that any fellow-crature that had the kindness and the courage to come and aid us--wet our lips, raise our heads, and cheer our sinkin' hearts by the sound of their voice alone--oh, wouldn't we say that it was G.o.d that in His mercy put it into their heart to come to us, and relieve us, and save us?"

The mother's feelings gave way at this picture; and she said, addressing her husband--

"Jerry, maybe it's right that she should go, bekaise, afther all, what if it's G.o.d Himself that has put it into her heart?"

He shook his head, but it was clear that his opposition began to waver.

"Think of the danger," he replied; "think of that. Still if I thought it was G.o.d's own will that was setting her to it--"

"Father," she replied, "let us do what is right, and lave the rest to G.o.d Himself. Surely you aren't afeard to trust in _Him_. I may take the fever here at home, without goin' at all, and die; for if it's His blessed will that I should die of it, nothing can save me, let me go or stay where I plaise; and if it's not, it matthers little where I go; His divine grace and goodness will take care of me and protect me. It's to G.o.d Himself, then, you are trustin' me, an' that ought to satisfy you."

Her parents looked at each other--then at her; and, with tears in their eyes, as if they had been parting with her as for a sacrifice, they gave a consent, in which that humble confidence in the will of G.o.d which const.i.tutes the highest order of piety, was blended with a natural yearning and terror of the heart, lest they were allowing her to place herself rashly within the fatal reach of the contagion which prevailed.

Having obtained their permission, she lost very little time in preparing for the task she had proposed to execute. A very small portion of meal, and a little milk, together with one or two jugs of gruel, whey, &c, she put under her cloak; and after getting the blessings of her parents, and kissing them and the rest of the family, she departed upon her pious--her sublime mission, followed by the tears and earnest prayers of her whole family.

How anomalous, and full of mysterious and inexplicable impulses is the human heart! Mave Sullivan, who, in volunteering to attend at the contagious beds of the unfortunate Daltons, gave singular and n.o.ble proof of the most heroic devotedness, absolutely turned from the common road, on her way to their cabin, rather than meet the funeral of a person who had died of fever, and on one or two occasions kept aloof from men who she knew to be invalids by the fact of their having handkerchiefs about their heads--a proof, in general, that they had been shaved or blistered, while laboring under its severest form.

When she had gone within about a quarter of a mile of her destination, she met two individuals, whose relative positions indicated anything but a state of friendly feeling between them. The persons we allude to were Thomas Dalton and the miserable object of his vengeance, Darby Skinadre.

Our readers are aware that Sarah caused Darby to accompany her, for safety, to the cabin of the Daltons, as she feared that, should young Dalton again meet him at the head of his mob, and he in such a furious and unsettled state, the hapless miser might fall a victim to his vengeance. No sooner, therefore, had the meal-monger heard Tom's name mentioned by his father, when about to proceed to prison, than he left a dark corner of the cabin, into which he had slunk, and, pa.s.sing out, easily disappeared, without being noticed, in the state of excitement which prevailed.

The very name of Tom reminded him that he was in his father's house, and that should he return, and find him there, he might expect little mercy at his hands. Tom, however, amidst the melancholy fatuity under which he labored, never forgot that he had an account to settle with Skinadre.

It ran through his unsettled understanding like a sound thread through a damaged web; for ever and anon his thought and recollection would turn to Peggy Murtagh, and the miser's refusal to give her credit for the food she asked of him. During the early part of that day he had gone about with a halter in his hand, as if seeking some particular individual; and whenever he chanced to be questioned as to his object, he always replied with a wild and ferocious chuckle--

"The fellow that killed her!--the fellow that killed her!"

Upon the present occasion, Mave was surprised by meeting him and the miser, whom he must have met accidentally, walking side by side, but in a position which gave fearful intimation of Dalton's purpose respecting him. Around the unfortunate wretch's neck was the halter aforesaid, made into a running noose, while, striding beside him, went his wild and formidable companion, holding the end of it in his hand, and eyeing him from time to time with a look of stupid but determined ferocity.

Skinadre's appearance and position were ludicrously and painfully helpless. His face was so pale and thin that it was difficult to see, even in those frightfuf times of sickness and famine, a countenance from which they were more significantly reflected. He was absolutely shrunk up with terror into half his size, his little thin, corded neck appearing as if it were striving unsuccessfully to work its way down into his trunk, and his small ferret eyes looking about in every direction for some one to extricate him out of the deadly thrall in which he was held. Mave, who had been aware of the enmity which his companion bore him, as well as of its cause, and fearing that the halter was intended to hang the luckless mealman, probably upon the next tree they came to, did not, as many another female would do, avoid or run away from the madman. On the contrary, she approached him with an expression singularly winning and sweet on her countenance, and in a voice of great kindness, laid her hand upon his arm to arrest his attention, asked him how he did. He paused a moment, and looking upon her with a dull but turbid eye, exclaimed with an insane laugh, pointing at the same time, to the miser--"This is the fellow that killed her--ha, ha, ha, but I have him now--here he is in the noose; in the noose. Ay, an' I swore it, an' there's another, too, that's to get it, but I won't rob any body, nor join in that at all; I'll hang him here, though--ha, Darby, I have you now."

As he spoke, poor Skinadre received a chuck of the halter which almost brought his tongue out as far as in the throttling process which we have before described.

"Mave, achora," said he, looking at her after his recovery from the powerful jerk he had just got, "for the sake of heaven, try an' save my life; if you don't he'll never let me out of his hands a livin' man."

"Don't be alarmed, Darby," she replied, "poor Tom won't injure you; so far from that, he'll take the halter from about your neck, an' let you go. Won't you let poor Darby go, Tom?"

"I will," he replied, "after I hang him--ha, ha, ha; 'twas he that killed her; he let her die wid hunger, but now he'll swing for it, ha, ha!"

These words were accompanied by another chuck, which pulled miserable Skinadre almost off his legs.