The Cooleen was herself in tears, occasioned by such a glowing picture of her lover, as well as by the loss of this faithful and devoted girl.  Yet she could not repress a smile at the indignation expressed by Ellen against the man whom she looked upon with such detestation and abhorrence,

“My dear Ellen,” said she, drying her tears, “we must only have patience.  Every thing is in the hands of God, and in him let us trust.  Do not weep so.  It is true that, without your society, I shall feel as if I were in a desert, or rather, I should say, in a dungeon; for, indeed, I fear that I am about to become a prisoner in my father’s house, and entangled more and more every day in the meshes of that detestable villain.  In the meantime, we must, as I said, have courage and patience, and trust to a change of circumstances for better times.”

“May the Lord in heaven grant them soon and sudden, for both your sakes,” ejaculated Ellen.  “I pray the Saviour that he may!”

“But, Ellen,” said the Cooleen, “didn’t you hint to me, once or twice, that you yourself have, or had, a lover named Reilly!”

“I did,” she replied, “not that I have, but that I had—­and, what is more, an humble and distant relation of him.”

“You say you had.  What do you mean by that, Ellen?  Have you, too, experienced your crosses and calamities?”

“Indeed, ma’am, I have had my share; and I know too well what it is to have the heart within as full of sorrow, and all but broken.”

“Why, my poor girl, and have you too experienced disappointment and affliction?”

“God, ma’am, has given me my share; but, in my case, the affliction was greater than the disappointment, although that too came soon enough upon me.”

“Why, did not the affliction, in your case, proceed from the disappointment?”

“Not exactly, miss, but indeed partly it did.  It’s but a short story, my dear mistress, and I’ll tell it to you.  Fergus is his name—­Fergus O’Reilly.  His father, for doin’ something or other contrary to the laws—­harborin’ some outlaw, I believe, that was a relation of his own, and who was found by the army in his house—­well, his father, a very ould man, was taken prisoner, and put into jail, where he died before they could try him; and well it was he did so, for, by all accounts, they’d have transported or hanged the poor ould man, who was then past seventy.  Now, over and above that, they’d have done the same thing with his son Fergus, but that he disappeared and but few knows what became of him.”

“Why, did he go without having had an interview with you?” asked the Cooleen.

“Indeed he did, miss, and small blame to him; for the truth is, he had little time for leave-takin’—­it was as much as he could do to make his escape, which, thank God, he did.  But, indeed, I oughtn’t to thank God for it, I doubt, because it would have been better, and ten times more creditable to himself, if he had been transported, or hanged himself—­for that, ma’am, is many a good man’s case, as every one knows.”