She did so, and her hand trembled so much that she was near spilling it.  He took a long draught, after which he smacked his lips, and seemed to breathe more freely.

“Helen,” said he.

“Well, dear papa.”

“Helen, I had something to mention to you, but—­”

“Don’t disturb yourself to-night, papa; you are somewhat feverish,” she added, feeling his pulse; if you will excuse me, papa, I think you drank too much; your pulse is very quick; if you could fall into rest again it would be better for you.”

“Yes, it would; but my mind is uneasy and sorrowful.  Helen, I thought you loved me, my darling.”

“Oh, could you doubt it, papa?  You see I am come as usual—­no, not as usual, either—­to kiss you; I will place my cheek against yours, as I used to do, dear papa, and you will allow me to weep—­to weep—­and to say that never father deserved the love of a daughter as you have deserved mine; and never did daughter love an affectionate and indulgent father more tenderly than your Cooleen Bawn does you.”

“I know it, Helen, I know it; your whole life has been a proof of it, and will be a proof of it; I know you have no other object in this world than to make papa happy; I know I feel that you are great-minded enough to sacrifice everything to that.”

“Well, but, papa,” she continued, “for all my former offences against you will you pity and forgive me?”

“I do both, you foolish darling; but what makes you speak so?”

“Because I feel melancholy to-night, papa; and now, papa, if ever I should do any thing wrong, won’t you pity and forgive your own Cooleen Bawn?”

“Get along, you gipsy—­don’t be crying.  What could you do that papa wouldn’t forgive you, unless to run away with Reilly?  Don’t you know that you can wind me round your finger?”

“Farewell, papa,” she said, weeping all the time, for, in truth, she found it impossible to control herself; “farewell—­good night! and remember that you may have a great deal to forgive your own Cooleen Bawn some of these days.”

On leaving the bedroom, where she was hurried by her feelings into this indiscreet dialogue, she found herself nearly incapable of walking without support.  The contending affections for her father and her lover had nearly overcome her.  By the aid of the staircase she got to her own room, where she was met by Connor, into whose arms she fell almost helpless.

“Ah, Connor,” she said, alluding to her father, whom she could not trust herself to name, “to-morrow morning what will become of him when he finds that I am gone?  But I know his affectionate heart.  He will relent—­he will relent for the sake of his own Cooleen Bawn.  The laws against Catholics are now relaxed, and I am glad of it.  But I have one consolation, my dear girl, that I am trusting myself to a man of honor.  We will proceed directly to the Continent;—­that