“Papa has imposed a task upon me, sir,” she said, advancing gracefully towards him, her complexion now pale, and again over-spread with deep blushes.  “What do I say?  Alas—­a task! to thank the preserver of my father’s life—­I know not what I say:  help me, sir, to papa—­I am weak—­I am—­”

Reilly flew to her, and caught her in his arms just in time to prevent her from falling.

“My God!” exclaimed her father, getting to his feet, “what is the matter?  I was wrong to mention the circumstance so abruptly; I ought to have prepared her for it.  You are strong, Reilly, you are strong, and I am too feeble—­carry her to the settee.  There, God bless you!—­God bless you!—­she will soon recover.  Helen! my child! my life!  What, Helen!  Come, dearest love, be a woman.  I am safe, as you may see, dearest.  I tell you I sustained no injury in life—­not a hair of nay head was hurt; thanks to Mr. Reilly for it thanks to this gentleman.  Oh! that’s right, bravo, Helen—­bravo, my girl!  See that, Reilly, isn’t she a glorious creature?  She recovers now, to set her old loving father’s heart at ease.”

The weakness, for it did not amount altogether to insensibility, was only of brief duration.

“Dear papa,” said she, raising herself, and withdrawing gently and modestly from Reilly’s support, “I was unprepared for the account of this dreadful affair.  Excuse me, sir; surely you will admit that a murderous attack on dear papa’s life could not be listened to by his only child with indifference.  But do let me know how it happened, papa.”

“You are not yet equal to it, darling; you are too much agitated.”

“I am equal to it now, papa!  Pray, let me hear it, and how this gentleman—­who will be kind enough to imagine my thanks, for, indeed, no language could express them—­and how this gentleman was the means of saving you.”

“Perhaps, Miss Folliard,” said Reilly, “it would be better to defer the explanation until you shall have gained more strength.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she replied; “my anxiety to hear it will occasion me greater suffering, I am sure, than the knowledge of it, especially now that papa is safe.”

Reilly bowed in acquiescence, but not in consequence of her words; a glance as quick as the lightning, but full of entreaty and gratitude, and something like joy—­for who does not know the many languages which the single glance of a lovely woman can speak?—­such a glance, we say, accompanied her words, and at once won him to assent.

“Miss Folliard may be right, sir,” he observed, “and as the shock has passed, perhaps to make her briefly acquainted with the circumstances will rather relieve her.”

“Right,” said her father, “so it will, Willy, so it will, especially, thank God, as there has been no harm done.  Look at this now!  Get away, you saucy baggage!  Your poor loving father has only just escaped being shot, and now he runs the risk of being strangled.”