“Here, I take the Almighty God to witness, that from this moment out I renounce father and mother, brother and sister, friend and relative, man and woman, and will abide by my dear unhappy Cooleen Bawn—­that blighted flower before us—­both by day and by night—­through all seasons—­through all places wherever she may go, or be brought, until it may please God to restore her to reason, or until death may close her sufferings, should I live so long, and have health and strength to carry out this solemn oath; so may God hear me, and assist me in my intention.”

She then rose, and, putting her arms around the fair girl, kissed her lips, and poured forth a copious flood of tears into her bosom.

“I am yours now,” she said, caressing her mournfully:  “I am yours now, my ever darling mistress; and from this hour forth nothing but death will ever separate your own Connor from you.”

Well and faithfully did she keep that generous and heroic oath.  Ever, for many a long and hopeless year, was she to be found, both night and day, by the side of that beautiful but melancholy sufferer.  No other hand ever dressed or undressed her; no other individual ever attended to her wants, or complied with those little fitful changes and caprices to which persons of her unhappy class are subject.  The consequence of this tender and devoted attachment was singular, but not by any means incompatible, we think, even with her situation.  If Connor, for instance, was any short time absent, and another person supplied her place, the Cooleen Bawn, in whose noble and loving heart the strong instincts of affection could never die, uniformly appeared dissatisfied and uneasy, and looked around her, as if for some object that would afford her pleasure.  On Ellen’s reappearance a faint but placid smile would shed its feeble light over her countenance, and she would appear calm and contented; but, during all this time, word uttered she none, with the exception of those to which we have already alluded.

These were the only words she was known to utter, and no stranger ever came in her way to whom she did not repeat them.  In this way her father, her maid, and herself passed through a melancholy existence for better than six years, when a young physician of great promise happened to settle in the town of Sligo, and her father having heard of it had him immediately called in.  After looking at her, however, he found himself accosted in the same terms we have already given: 

“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?”

“William Reilly will soon be with you,” he replied; “he will soon be here.”

A start—­barely, scarcely perceptible, was noticed by the keen eye of the physician; but it passed away, and left nothing but that fixed and beautiful vacancy behind it.

“Sir,” said the physician, “I do not absolutely despair of Miss Folliard’s recovery:  the influence of some deep excitement, if it could be made accessible, might produce a good effect; it was by a shock it came upon her, and I am of opinion that if she ever does recover it will be by something similar to that which induced her pitiable malady.”