Chapter 22

If the truth were known, the triumph which Mave Sullivan achieved over the terror of fever which she felt in common with almost every one in the country around her, was the result of such high-minded devotion, as would have won her a statue in the times of old Greece, when self-sacrifice for human good was appreciated and rewarded. In her case, indeed, the triumph was one of almost unparalleled heroism; for among all the difficulties which she had to overcome, by far the greatest was her own constitutional dread of contagion. It was only on reaching the miserable pest-house in which the Daltons lived, and on witnessing, with her own eyes, the clammy atmosphere which, in the shape of dark heavy smoke, was oozing in all directions from its roof, that she became conscious of the almost fatal step that she was about to take, and the terrible test of Christian duty and exalted affection, to which she was in the act of subjecting herself.

On arriving at the door, and when about to enter, even the resolution she had come to, and the lofty principle of trust in God, on which it rested, were scarcely able to support her against the host of constitutional terrors, which, for a moment, rushed upon her breast. The great act of self-sacrifice, as it may almost be termed, which she was about to perform, became so diminished in her imagination, that all sense of its virtue passed away; and instead of gaining strength from a consciousness of the pure and unselfish motive by which she was actuated, she began to contemplate her conduct as the result of a rash and unjustifiable presumption on the providence of God, and a wanton exposure of the life he had given her. She felt herself tremble; her heart palpitated, and for a minute or two her whole soul became filled with a tumultuous and indistinct! perception of all she had proposed to do, as well as of everything about her. Gradually, however, his state of feeling cleared away--by and by the purity and Christian principle that were involved in her conduct, came to her relief.

“What,” she asked herself, “if they should die without assistance? In God's name, and with his strength to aid me, I will run all risks, and fulfil the task I have taken upon me to do. May he support and protect me through it.”

Thus resolved, and thus fortified, she entered the gloomy scene of sickness and contagion.

There were but four persons within: that is to say, her lover, his sister Nancy, Mary the invalid, and Sarah M'Gowan. Nancy and her brother were now awake, and poor Mary occupied her father's arm-chair, in which she sat with her head reclined upon the back of it, somewhat, indeed, after his own fashion--and Sarah opposite young Con's bed, having her eyes fixed, with a mournful expression, on his pale and almost deathlike countenance. Mave's appearance occasioned the whole party to feel much surprise--and Mary rose from her arm-chair, and greeting her affectionately, said--

“I cannot welcome you, dear Mave, to sick a place as this--and indeed I am sorry you came to see us--for I needn't tell you what I'd feel--what we'd all feel,” and here she looked quickly, but with the slightest possible significance at her brother, “if anything happened you in consequence; which may God forbid! How are you all at home?”

“We are all free from sickness, thank God,” said Mave, whom the presence of Sarah caused to blush deeply; “but how are you all here? I am sorry to find that poor Nancy is ill--and that Con has got a relapse.”

She turned her eyes upon him as she spoke, and, on contemplating his languid and sickly countenance, she could only, by a great effort, repress her tears.

“Do not come near us, dear Mave,” said Dalton, “and, indeed, it was wrong to come here at all.”

“God bless you, an' guard you, Mave,” said Nancy, “an' we feel your goodness; but as Con says, it was wrong to put yourself in the way of danger. For God's sake, and as you hope to escape this terrible sickness, lave the house at wanst. We're sensible of your kindness--but lave us--lave us--for every minute you stop, may be death to you.”

Sarah, who had never yet spoken to Mave, turned her black mellow eyes from her to her lover, and from him to her alternately. She then dropped them for a time on the ground, and again looked round her with something like melancholy impatience. Her complexion was high and flushed, and her eyes sparkled with unaccustomed brilliancy.

“It's not right two people should run sich risk on our account,” said Con, looking towards Sarah; “here's a young woman who has come to nurse, tend and take care of us, for which, may God bless her, and protect her!--it's Sarah M'Gowan, Donnel Dhu's daughter.”

“Think of Mave Sullivan,” said Sarah--“think only' of Mave Sullivan--she's in danger--ha--but as for me--suppose I should take the faver and die?”

“May God forbid, poor girl,” exclaimed Con; “it would lave us all a sad heart. Dear Mave don't stop here--every minute is dangerous.”

Sarah went over to the bedside, and putting her hand gently upon his forehead, said--

“Don't spake to pity me--I can't bear pity; anything at all but pity from you. Say you don't care what becomes of me, or whether I die or not--but don't pity me.”

It is extremely difficult to describe Sarah's appearance and state of mind as she spoke this. Her manner towards Con was replete with tenderness, and the most earnest and anxious interest, while at the same time there ran through her voice a tone of bitter feeling, an evident consciousness of something that pressed strongly on her heart, which gave a marked and startling character to her language.

Mave for a moment forgot everything but the interest which Sarah, and the mention of her, excited. She turned gently round from Mary, who had been speaking to her, and fixing her eyes on Sarah, examined her with pardonable curiosity, from head to foot; nor will she be blamed, we trust, if, even then and there, the scrutiny was not less close, in consequence of it having been I known to her that in point of beauty, and symmetry of figure, they had stood towards each other, for some time past, in the character of rivals. Sarah who had on, without stockings, a pair of small slippers, a good deal the worse for wear, had risen from the bed side, and now stood near the fire, directly opposite the only little window in the house, and, consequently, in the best light it afforded. Mave's glance, though rapid, was comprehensive; but she felt it was sufficient: the generous girl, on contemplating the wild grace and natural elegance of Sarah's figure, and the singular beauty and wonderful animation of her features, instantly, in her own mind, surrendered all claim to competition, and admitted to herself that Sarah was, without exception, the most perfectly beautiful girl she ever seen. Her last words, too, and the striking tone in which they were spoken, arrested her attention still more; so that she passed naturally from the examination of her person to the purport of her language.

We trust that our readers know enough of human nature, to understand that this examination of Sarah, upon the part of Mave Sullivan, was altogether an involuntary act, and one which occurred in less time than we have taken to write any one of the lines in which it is described.

Mave, who perceived at once that the words of Sarah were burdened by some peculiar distress, could not prevent her admiration from turning into pity without exactly knowing why; but in consequence of what Sarah had just said, she feared to express it either by word or look, lest she might occasion her unnecessary pain. She consequently, after a slight pause, replied to her lover--

“You must not blame me, dear Con, for being here. I came to give whatever poor attendance I could to Nancy here, and to sich of you as want it, while you're sick. I came, indeed, to stay and nurse you all, if you will let me; an' you won't be sorry to hear it, in spite of all that has happened, that I have the consent of my father an' mother for so doin'.”

A faint smile of satisfaction lit up her lover's features, but this was soon overshadowed by his apprehension for her safety.

Sarah, who had for about a half minute been examining Mave on her part, now started, and exclaimed with flashing eyes, and we may add, a bursting and distracted heart--

“Well, Mave Sullivan, I have often seen you, but never so well as now. You have goodness an' truth in your face. Oh, it's a purty face--a lovely face. But why do you state a falsehood here--for what you've just said is false; I know it.”

Mave started, and in a moment her pale face and neck were suffused by one burning blush, at the idea of such an imputation. She looked around her, as if enquiring from all those who were present the nature of the falsehood attributed to her; and then with a calm but firm eye, she asked Sarah what she could mean by such language.

“You're afther sayin',” replied Sarah, “that you're come here to nurse Nancy there. Now that's not true, and you know it isn't. You come here to nurse young Con Dalton: and you came to nurse him, bekaise you love him. No, I don't blame you for that, but I do for not saying so, without fear or disguise--for I hate both.”

“That wouldn't be altogether true either,” replied Mave, “if I said so; for I did come to nurse Nancy, and any others of the family that might stand in need of it. As to Con, I'm neither ashamed to love him, nor afeard to acknowledge it; and I had no notion of statin' a falsehood when I said what I did. I tell you, then, Sarah M'Gowan, that you've done me injustice. If there appeared to be a falsehood in my words, there was none in my heart.”

“That's truth; I know, I feel that that's truth,” replied Sarah, quickly; “but oh, how wrong I am,” she exclaimed, “to mention that or anything else here that might distract him! Ah,” she proceeded, addressing Mave, “I did you injustice--I feel I did, but don't be angry with me, for I acknowledge it.”

“Why should I be angry with you?” replied Mave, “you only spoke what you thought, an' this, by all accounts, is what you always do.”

“Let us talk as little as possible here,” replied Sarah, the sole absorbing object of whose existence lay in Dalton's recovery. “I will speak to you on your way home, but not here--not here;” and while uttering the last words she pointed to Dalton, to intimate that further conversation might disturb him.

“Dear Mave,” observed Mary, now rising from her chair, “you are stayin' too long; oh, for God's sake, don't stop; you can't dhrame of the danger you're in.”

“But,” replied Mave, calmly, “you know, Mary, that I came to stop and to do whatever I can do till the family comes round. You are too feeble to undertake anything, and might only get into a relapse if you attempted it.”

“But, then we have Sarah M'Gowan,” she replied, “who came, as few would--none livin' this day, I think, barrin' yourself and her--to stay with us, and to do anything that she can do for us all. May God for ever bless her! for short as the time is, I think she has saved some of our lives--Condy's without a doubt.”

Mave turned towards Sarah, and, as she looked upon her, the tears started to her eyes.

“Sarah M'Gowan,” said she, “you are fond of truth, an' you are right; I can't find words to thank you for doin' what you did, God bless and reward you!”

She extended her hand as she spoke, but Sarah put it back. “No,” said she, indignantly, “never from you; above all that's livin' don't you thank me. You, you, why you arn't his wife yet,” she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice of deep agitation, “an maybe you never will. You don't know what may happen--you don't know--”

She immediately seemed to recollect something that operated as a motive to restrain any exhibition of strong feeling or passion on her part, for all at once she composed herself, and sitting down, merely said:--

“Mave Sullivan, I'm glad you love truth, and I believe you do; I can't, then, resave any thanks from you, nor I won't; an' I would tell you why, any place but here.”

“I don't at all understand you,” replied Mave; “but for your care and attention to him, I'm sure it's no harm to say, may God reward you! I will never forget it to you.”

“While I have life,” said Dalton feebly, and fixing his eyes upon Sarah's face, “I, for one, won't forget her kindness.”

“Kindness!” she re-echoed--“ha, ha!--well, it's no matter--it's no matter!”

“She saved my life, Mave; I was lyin' here, and hadn't even a drink of water, and there was no one else in the house; Mary, there, was out, an' poor Nancy was ravin' an' ragin' with illness and pain; but she, Sarah, was here to settle us, to attend us, to get us a drink whenever we wanted it--to raise us up, an' to put it to our lips, an' to let us down with as little pain as possible. Oh, how could I forget all this? Dear, dear Sarah, how could I forget this if I was to live a thousand years?”

Con's face, while he spoke, became animated with the enthusiasm of the feeling to which he gave utterance, and, as his eyes were fixed on Sarah with a suitable expression, there appeared to be a warmth of emotion in his whole manner which a sanguine person might probably interpret in something beyond gratitude.

Sarah, after he had concluded, looked upon him with a long, earnest, but uncertain gaze; so long, indeed, and so intensely penetrating was it, that the whole energy of her character might, for a time, be read clearly in the singular expression of her eyes. It was evident that her thoughts were fluttering between pleasure and pain, cheerfulness and gloom; but at length her countenance lost, by degrees its earnest character, the alternate play of light and shadow over it ceased, and the gaze changed, almost imperceptibly, into one of settled abstraction.

“It might be,” she said, as if thinking aloud--“it might be--but time will tell; and, in the manetime, everything must be done fairly--fairly; still, if it shouldn't come to pass--if it should not--it would be betther if I had never been born; but it may be, an' time will tell.”

Mave had watched her countenance closely, and without being able to discover the nature of the conflict that appeared in it, she went over, and placing her hand gently upon Sarah's arm, exclaimed--

“Don't blame me for what I'm goin' to say, Sarah--if you'll let me call you Sarah; but the truth is, I see that your mind is troubled. I wish to God I could remove that trouble, or that any one here could! I am sure they all would, as willingly as myself.”

“She is troubled,” said Mary; “I know by her manner that there's something distressing on her mind. Any earthly thing that we could do to relieve her we would; but I asked her, and she wouldn't tell me.”

It is likely that Mary's kindness, and especially Mave's, so gently, but so sincerely expressed, touched her as they spoke. She made no reply, however, but approached Mave with a slight smile on her face, her lips compressed, and her eyes, which were fixed and brilliant, floating in something that looked like moisture, and which might as well have been occasioned by the glow of anger as the impulse of a softer emotion, or perhaps--and this might be nearer the truth--as a conflict between the two states of feeling. For some moments she looked into Mave's very eyes, and after a little, she seemed to regain her composure, and sat down without speaking. There was a slight pause occasioned by the expectation that she had been about to reply, during which Dalton's eyes were fixed upon her. In her evident distress, she looked upon him. Their eyes met, and the revelation that that glance of anguish, on the part of Sarah, gave to him, disclosed the secret.

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, involuntarily and unconsciously, “is this possible?”

Sarah felt that the discovery had been made by him at last; and seeing that all their eyes were still upon her, she rose up, and approaching Mave, said--

“It is true, Mave Sullivan, I am troubled--Mary, I am troubled;” and as she uttered the words, a blush so deep and so beautiful spread itself over her face and neck, that the very females present were, for the moment, lost in admiration of her radiant youth and loveliness. Dalton's eyes were still upon her, and after a little time, he said--

“Sarah, come to me.”

She went to his bedside, and kneeling, bent her exquisite figure over him; and as her dark brilliant eyes looked into his, he felt the fragrance of her breath mingling with his own.

“What is it?” said she.

“You are too near me,” said he.

“Ah, I feel I am,” she said, shaking her head.

“I mane,” he added, “for your own safety. Give me your hand, dear Sarah.”

He took her hand, and raising himself a little on his right side, he looked upon her again; and as he did so, she felt a few warm tears falling upon it.

“Now,” he said, “lay me down again, Sarah.”

A few moments of ecstatic tumult, in which Sarah was unconscious of anything about her, passed. She then rose, and sitting down on the little stool, she wept for some minutes in silence. During this quiet paroxysm no one spoke; but when Dalton turned his eyes upon Mave Sullivan, she was pale as ashes.

Mary, who had noticed nothing particular in the incidents just related, now urged Mave to depart; and the latter, on exchanging glances with Dalton, could perceive that a feeble hectic had overspread his face. She looked on him earnestly for a moment, then paused as if in thought, and going round to his bedside, knelt down, and taking his hand, said--

“Con, if there is any earthly thing that I can do to give ease and comfort to your mind, I am ready to do it. If it would relieve you, forget that you ever saw me, or ever--ever--knew me at all. Suppose I am not living--that I am dead. I say this, dear Con, to relieve you from any pain or distress of mind that you may feel on my account. Believe me, I feel everything for you, an' nothing now for myself. Whatever you do, I tell you that a harsh word or thought from me you will never have.”

Mave, while she spoke, did not shed a tear; nor was her calm, sweet voice indicative of any extraordinary emotion. Sarah, who had been weeping until the other began to speak, now rose up, and approaching Mave, said--

“Go, Mave Sullivan--go out of this dangerous house; and you, Condy Dalton, heed not what she has said. Mave Sullivan, I think I understand your words, an' they make me ashamed of myself, an' of the thoughts that have been troublin' me. Oh, what am I when compared to you?--nothing nothing.”

Mave had, on entering, deposited the little matters she had brought for their comfort, and Mary now came over, and placing her hand on her shoulder, said:

“Sarah is right, dear Mave; for God's sake do not stay here. Oh, think--only think if you tuck this faver, an' that anything happened you.”

“Come,” said Sarah, “leave this dangerous place; I will see you part of the way home--you can do nothing here that I won't do, and everything that I can do will be done.” Her lover's eyes had been fixed upon her, and with a feeble voice--for the agitation had exhausted him--he added his solicitations for her departure to theirs.

“I hope I will soon be better, dear Mave, and able to get up too--but may God bless you and take care of you till then!”

Mave again went round and took his hand, on which he felt a few tears fall.

“I came here, dear Con,” she said, “to take care of you all, and why need I be ashamed to say so--to do all I could for yourself. Sarah here wishes me to spake the truth, an' why shouldn't I? Think of my words then, Con, and don't let me or the thoughts of me occasion you one moment's unhappiness. To see you happy is all the wish I have in this world.”

She then bade them an affectionate farewell, and was about to take her departure, when Sarah, who had been musing for a moment, went to Dalton, and having knelt on one knee, was about to speak, and to speak, as was evident from her manner, with great earnestness, when she suddenly restrained herself, clasped her hands with a vehement action, looked distractedly from him to Mave, and then suddenly rising, took Mave's hand, and said:

“Come away--it's dangerous to stop where this fever is--you ought to be careful of yourself--you have friends that loves you, and that would feel for you if you were gone. You have a kind good father,--a lovhin' mother--a lovin' mother, that you could turn to, an' may turn to, if ever you should have a sore heart--a mother--oh, that blessed word--what wouldn't I give to say that I have a mother! Many an' outrage--many a wild fit of passion--many a harsh word, too--oh, what mightn't I be now if I had a mother? All the world thinks I have a bad heart--that I'm without feelin'; but, indeed, Mave Sullivan, I'm not without feelin', an' I don't think I have a bad heart.”

“You have not a bad heart,” replied Mave, taking her hand; “no one, dear Sarah, could look into your face and say so; no, but I think so far from that, your heart is both kind and generous.”

“I hope so,” she replied, “I hope I have--now come you and leave this dangerous house; besides I have something to say to you.”

Mave and she proceeded along the old causeway that led to the cabin, and having got out upon the open road, Sarah stood.

“Now, Mave Sullivan,” said she, “listen--you do me only justice to say that I love truth, an' hate a lie, or consalement of any kind. I ax you now this--you discovered awhile ago that I love Condy Dalton? Isn't that thrue?”

“I wasn't altogether certain,” replied Mave, “but I thought I did--an' now I think you do love him.”

“I do love him--oh, I do--an' why as you said, should I be ashamed of it?--ay, an' it was my intention to tell you so the first time I'd see you, an' to give you fair notice that I did, an' that I'd lave nothing undone to win him from you.”

“Well,” replied the other, “this is open and honest, at all events.”

“That was my intention,” pursued Sarah, “an' I had, for a short time, other thoughts; ay, an' worse thoughts; my father was pursuadin' me--but I can't spake on that--for he has my promise not to do so. Oh, I'm nothing, dear Mave--nothing at all to you. I can't forget your words awhile ago--bekaise I knew what you meant at the time, when you said to Con, 'any earthly thing that I can do to give aise and comfort to your mind. I am ready to do it. If it would relieve you, forget that you ever saw me or ever knew me.' Now, Mave, I've confessed to you that I love Con Dalton--but I tell you not to trouble your heart by any thoughts of me; my mind's made up as to what I'll do--don't fear me, I'll never cross you here. I'm a lonely creature,” she proceeded, bursting into bitter tears; “I'm without friends and relations, or any one that cares at all about me--”

“Don't say so,” replied Mave, “I care about you, an' it's only now that people is beginning to know you--but that's not all, Sarah, if it's any consolation to you to know it--know it--Condy Dalton loves you--ay, loves you, Sarah M'Gowan--you may take my word for that--I am certain this day that what I say is true.”

“Loves me!” she exclaimed.

“Loves you,” repeated Mave, “is the word, an I have said it.”

“I didn't suspect that when I spoke,” she replied.

Each looked upon the other, and both as they stood were as pale as death itself. At length Mave spoke.

“I have only one thought, Sarah, an' that is how to make him happy; to see him happy.”

“I can scarcely spake,” replied Sarah; “I wouldn't know what to say if I did. I'm all confused; Mave, dear, forgive me!”

“God bless you,” replied Mave, “for you are truth an' honesty itself. God bless an' you, make him happy! Good-bye, dear Sarah.”

She put her hand into Sarah's and felt that it trembled excessively--but Sarah was utterly passive; she did not even return the pressure which she had received, and when Mave departed, she was standing in a reverie, incapable of thought, deadly pale, and perfectly motionless.

CHAPTEE XXV. -- Sarah Without Hope.

How Sarah returned to Dalton's cabin she herself knew not. Such was the tumult which the communication then made to her by Mave, had occasioned in her mind, that, the scene which had just taken place, altogether appeared to her excited spirit like a troubled dream, whose impressions were too unreal and deceptive to be depended on for a moment. The reaction from the passive state in which Mave had left her, was, to a temperament like her's, perfectly overwhelming. Her pulse beat high, her cheek burned, and her eye flashed with more than its usual fire and overpowering brilliancy, and, with the exception of one impression alone, all her thoughts were so rapid and indistinct as to resemble the careering clouds which fly in tumult and confusion along the troubled sky, with nothing stationary but the sun far above, and which, in this case, might be said to resemble the bright conviction of Dalton's love for her, that Mave's assurance had left behind it. On re-entering the cabin, without being properly conscious of what she either did or said, she once more knelt by the side of Dalton's bed, and hastily taking his unresisting hand, was about to speak; but a difficulty how to shape her language held her in a painful and troubled suspense for some moments, during which Dalton could plainly perceive the excitement, or rather rapture, by which she was actuated. At length a gush of hot and burning tears enabled her to speak, and she said:

“Con Dalton--dear Con, is it true? can it be true?--oh, no--no--but, then, she says it--is it true that you like me--like me!--no, no--that word is too wake--is it true that you love me? but no--it can't be--there never was so much happiness intended for me; and then, if it should be true--oh, if it was possible, how will I bear it? what will I do? what--is to be the consequence? for my love for you is beyond all belief--beyond all that tongue can tell. I can't stand this struggle--my head is giddy--I scarcely know what I'm sayin', or is it a dhrame that I'll waken from, and find it false--false?”

Dalton pressed her hand, and looking tenderly upon her face, replied:

“Dear Sarah, forgive me; your dhrame is both thrue and false. It is true that I like you--that I pity you; but you forbid me to say that--well it is true, I say, that I like you; but I can't say more. The only girl I love in the sense you mane, is Mave Sullivan. I could not tell you an untruth, Sarah; nor don't desave yourself. I like you, but I love her.”

She started up, and in an instant dashed the tears from her cheeks; after which she said:

“I am glad to know it; you have said the truth--the bitther truth; ay, bitther it will prove, Condy Dalton, to more than me. My happiness in this world is now over forever. I never was happy; an' its clear that the doom is against me; I never will be happy. I am now free to act as I like. No matther what I do, it can't make me feel more than I feel now. I might take a life; ay, twenty, an' I couldn't feel more miserable than I am. Then, what is there to prevent me from workin' out my own will, an' doin' what my father wishes? I may make myself worse an' guiltier; but unhappier I cannot be. That poor, weak hope was all I had in this world; but that is gone; and I have no other hope now.”

“Compose yourself, dear Sarah; calm yourself,” said Dalton.

“Don't call me dear Sarah,” she replied; “you were wrong ever to do so. Oh, why was I born! an' what has this world an' this life been to me but hardship an' sorrow? But still,” she added, drawing herself up, “I will let you all see what pride can do. I now know my fate, an' what I must suffer: an' if one tear would gain your love, I wouldn't shed it--never, never.”

“Sarah,” said Mary, in a soothing voice, “I hope you won't blame poor Con. You don't know maybe that himself an' Mave Sullivan has loved one another ever since they were--”

“No more about Mave Sullivan,” she replied, almost fiercely; “lave her to me. As for me, I'll not brake my word, either for good or evil; I was never the one to do an ungenerous--an ungenerous--no--” She paused, however, as if struck by some latent conviction, and, in a panting voice, she added, “I must lave you for a while, but I will be back in an hour or two; oh, yes I will; an' in the mane time, Mary, anything that is to be done, you can do it for me till I come agin. Mave Sullivan! Mave Sullivan! lave Mave Sullivan to me!”

She then threw an humble garment about her, and in a few minutes was on her way to have an interview with her father. On reaching home, she found that he had arrived only a few minutes before her; and to her surprise he expressed something like; good humor, or, perhaps, gratification at her presence there. On looking into her face more closely, however, he had little trouble in perceiving that something extraordinary had disturbed her. He then glanced at Nelly, who, as usual, sat gloomily by the fire, knitting her brows and groaning with suppressed ill-temper as she had been in the habit of doing, ever since she suspected that Donnel had made a certain disclosure, connecting with her, to Sarah.

“Well,” said he, “has there been another battle? have you been _ding dust_ at it as usual? What's wrong, Sally? eh? Did it go to blows wid you, for you looked raised?”

“You're all out of it,” replied Nelly; “her blood's up, now, an' I'm not prepared for a sudden death. She's dangerous this minute, an' I'll take care of her. Blessed man, look at her eyes.”

She repeated these words with that kind of low, dogged ridicule and scorn which so frequently accompany stupid and wanton brutality; and which are, besides, provoking, almost beyond endurance, when the mind is chafed by a consideration of an exciting nature.

Sarah flew like lightning to the old knife, which we have already mentioned, and, snatching it from the shelf of the dresser, on which it lay, exclaimed:

“I have now no earthly thought, nor any hope of good in this world, to keep my hand from evil; an' for all ever you made me suffer, take this--”

Her father had not yet sat down, and it was, indeed, well that he had not--for it required all his activity and strength united, to intercept the meditated blow, by seizing his daughter's arm.'

“Sarah,” said he, “what is this? are you mad, you murdhering jade, to attempt the vagabond's life? for she is a vagabond, and an ill-tongued vagabond. Why do you provoke the girl by sich language, you double-distilled ould sthrap? you do nothin' but growl an' snarl, an' curse, an' pray--ay, pray, from mornin' to night, in sich a way, that the very devil himself could not bear you, or live wid you. Begone out o' this, or I'll let her at you, an' I'll engage she'll give you what'll settle you.”

Nelly rose, and putting on her cloak went out.

“I'm goin',” she replied, looking at, and addressing the Prophet; “an' plaise God, before long I'll have the best wish o' my heart fulfilled, by seein' you hanged; but, until then, may my curse, an' the curse o' God light on you and pursue you. I know you have tould her everything, or she wouldn't act towards me as she has done of late.”

Sarah stood like the Pythoness, in a kind of savage beauty, with the knife firmly grasped in her hand.

“I'm glad she's gone,” she said; “but it's not her, father, that I ought to raise my hand against.”

“Who then, Sarah?” he asked, with something like surprise.

“You asked me,” she proceeded, “to assist in a plan to have Mave Sullivan carried off by young Dick o' the Grange--I'm now ready for anything, and I'll do it. This world, father, has nothing good or happy in it for me--now I'll be aquil to it; if it gives me nothing good, it'll get nothing out of me. I'll give it blow for blow; kindness, good fortune, if it was to happen--but it can't now--would soften me; but I know, I feel that ill-treatment, crosses, disappointments, an' want of all hope in this life, has made, an' will make me a devil--ay, an' oh! what a different girl I might be this day!”

“What has vexed you?” asked the father “for I see that something has.”

“Isn't it a cruel thing,” she proceeded, without seeming to have attended to him; “isn't it a cruel thing to think that every one you see about you has some happiness except yourself; an' that your heart is burstin', an' your brain burnin', an' no relief for you; no one point to turn to, for consolation--but everything dark and dismal, and fiery about you?”

“I feel all this myself,” said the Prophet; “so, don't be disheartened, Sarah; in the coorse o' time your heart will get so hardened that you'll laugh at the world--ay, at all that's either bad or good in it, as I do.”

“I never wish to come to that state,” she replied; “an' you never felt what I feel--you never had that much of what was good in your heart. No,” she proceeded, “sooner than come to that state--that is, to your state--I'd put this knife into my heart. You, father, never loved one of your own kind yet.”

“Didn't I?” he replied, while his eyes lightened into a glare like those of a provoked tiger; “ay, I loved one of our kind--of your kind; loved her--ay, an' was happy wid her--oh, how happy. Ah, Sarah M'Gowan, an' I loved my fellow-creatures then, too, like a fool as I was: loved, ay, loved; an' she that I so loved proved false to me--proved an adulteress; an' I tell you now, that it may harden your heart against the world, that that woman--my wife--that I so loved, an' that so disgraced me, was your mother.”

“It's a lie--it's as false as the devil himself,” she replied, turning round quickly, and looking him with frantic vehemence of manner in the face. “My mother never did what you say. She's now in her grave, an' can't speak for or defend herself; but if I were to stand here till judgment day, I'd say it was false. You were misled or mistaken, or your own bad, suspicious nature made you do her wrong; an' even if it was thrue--which it is not, but false as hell--why would you crash and wring her daughter's heart by a knowledge of it? Couldn't you let me get through the short but bitther passage of life that's before me, without addin' this to the other thoughts that's distractin' me?”

“I did it, as I said,” he replied, “to make you harden your heart, an' to prevent you from puttin' any trust in the world, or expectin' anything either of thruth or goodness from it.”

She started, as if some new light had broken in upon her, and turning to him, said--

“Maybe I undherstand you, father--I hope I do. Oh, could it be that you wor wanst--a--a--a betther man--a man that had a heart for fellow-creatures, and cared for them? I'm lookin' into my own heart now, and I don't doubt but I might be brought to the same state yet. Ha, that's terrible to think of; but again, I can't believe it. Father, you can stoop to lies an' falsity--that I could not do; but no matther; you wor wanst a good man, maybe. Am I right?”

The Prophet turned round, and fixing his eyes upon his daughter, they stood each gazing upon the other for some time. He then looked for a moment into the ground, after which he sat down upon a stool, and covering his face with both his hands, remained in that position for two or three minutes.

“Am I right, father?” she repeated.

He raised his eyes, and looking upon her with his usual composure, replied--

“No--you are wrong--you are very wrong. When I was a light-hearted, affectionate boy, playing with my brothers and sisters, I was a villain. When I grew into youth, Sarah, an' thought every one full of honesty an' truth, an' the world all kindness, an' nothin' about me but goodness, an' generosity, an' affection, I was, of coorse, a villain. When I loved the risin' sun--when I looked upon the stars of heaven with a wonderin' and happy heart--when the dawn of mornin' and the last light of the summer evening filled me with joy, and made me love every one and everything about me--the trees, the runnin' rivers, the green fields, and all that God--ha, what am I sayin'?--I was a villain. When I loved an' married your mother, an' when she--but no matther--when all these things happened, I was, I say, a villain; but now that things is changed for the betther, I am an honest man!”

“Father, there is good in you yet,” she said, as her eyes sparkled in the very depth of her excitement, with a hopeful animation that had its source in a noble and exalted benevolence, “you're not lost.”

“Don't I say,” he replied, with a cold and bitter sneer, “that I am an honest man.”

“Ah,” she replied, “that's gone too, then--look where I will, everything's dark--no hope--no hope of any kind; but no matther now; since I can't do betther, I'll make them think o' me: aye, an' feel me too. Come, then, what have you to say to me?”

“Let us have a walk, then,” replied her father. “There is a weeny glimpse of sunshine, for a wondher. You look heated--your face is flushed too, very much, an' the walk will cool you a little.”

“I know my face is flushed,” she replied; “for I feel it burnin', an' so is my head; I have a pain in it, and a pain in the small o' my back too.”

“Well, come,” he continued, “and a walk will be of sarvice to you.”

They then went out in the direction of the Rabbit Bank, the Prophet, during their walk, availing himself of her evident excitement to draw from her the history of its origin. Such a task, indeed, was easily accomplished, for this singular creature, in whom love of truth, as well as a detestation of all falsehood and subterfuge, seemed to have been a moral instinct, at once disclosed to him the state of her affections, and, indeed, all that the reader already knows of her love for Dalton, and her rivalry with Mave Sullivan. These circumstances were such precisely as he could have wished for, and our readers need scarcely be told that he failed not to aggravate her jealousy of Mave, nor to suggest to her the necessity on her part, if she possessed either pride or spirit, to prevent her union with Dalton by every means in her power.

“I'll do it,” she replied, “I'll do it; to be sure I feel it's not right, an' if I had one single hope in this world, I'd scorn it; but I'm now desperate; I tried to be good, but I'm only a cobweb before the wind--everything is against me, an' I think I'm like some one that never had a guardian angel to take care of them.”

The Prophet then gave her a detailed account of their plan for carrying away Mave Sullivan, and of his own subsequent intentions in life.

“We have more than one iron in the fire,” he proceeded, “an' as soon as everything comes off right, and to our wishes, we'll not lose a single hour in going to America.”

“I didn't think,” said Sarah, “that Dalton ever murdered Sullivan till I heard him confess it; but I can well understand it now. He was hasty, father, and did it in a passion, but it's himself that has a good heart. Father, don't blame me for what I say, but I'd rather be that pious, affectionate ould man, wid his murdher on his head, than you in the state you're in. An' that's thrue, I must turn back and go to them--I'm too long away: still, something ails me--I'm all sickish, my head and back especially.”

“Go home to your own place,” he replied; “maybe it's the sickness you're takin.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, “I felt this way once or twice before, an' I know it'll go off me--good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Sarah, an' remember, honor bright and saicresy.”

“Saicresy, father, I grant you, but never honor bright for me again. It's the world that makes me do it--the wicked, dark, cruel world, that has me as I am, widout a livin' heart to love me--that's what makes me do it.”

They then separated, he pursuing his way to Dick o' the Grange's, and she to the miserable cabin of the Daltons. They had not gone far, however, when she returned, and calling after him, said--

“I have thought it over again, and won't promise altogether till I see you again.”

“Are you goin' back o' your word so soon!” he asked, with a kind of sarcastic sneer. “I thought you never broke your word, Sarah.”

She paused, and after looking about her as if in perplexity, she turned on her heel, and proceeded in silence.