He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she was utterly unable to conceal.

“Well, Miss Connor,” he asked, “what’s the matther?  You’re cryin’, I persave.”

“All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell.”

“Unwell! why she wasn’t unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o’ the garden.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Connor; “I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her.”

“Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?”

“Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey.  She’s now in her own room, quite ill.”

“Oh, then, if she’s quite ill, it’s right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for.”

“Ah, but she’s now asleep, Cummiskey—­that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her.”

“Ah, I believe you,” he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor’s agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; “the sleep will be good for her, the darlin’; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther’s sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her?  You know that if she died he wouldn’t live a week.”

“That’s true, indeed,” she replied; “and if she get’s worse, Cummiskey, I’ll let the master know.”

“That’s a good girl; ma gragal that you! war—­good-by, acushla,” and he immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor went down to the kitchen.

“Now, Mr. Malcomson,” said he, “there is a good fire before you.  I ax your pardon—­just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this candle.”

“‘Am sayin’, Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime to send up anither tankard o’ that yill.”

To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very deliberately proceeded to that of Helen.  The door was open, the bed unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was tenantless, Connor a liar and an accomplice, and the suspicions of himself and Malcomson well founded.  He then followed Connor to the kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him.  He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped with Willy Reilly.  The uproar then commenced, the house was searched, but no Cooleen Bawn was found.  Cummiskey himself remained comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such unexampled tenderness and affection.  On ascertaining that she was not in the house, he went upstairs to his master’s bedroom, having the candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door.  There was no reply from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep.  The case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred.  At length he stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed: