“I will give a thousand pounds—­five thousand—­ten thousand, to any man who will be fortunate enough to restore her to reason,” said her father.

“One course,” proceeded the physician, “I would recommend you to pursue; bring her about as much as you can; give her variety of scenery and variety of new faces; visit your friends, and bring her with you.  This course may have some effect; as for medicine, it is of no use here, for her health is in every other respect good.”

He then took his leave, having first received a fee which somewhat astonished him.

His advice, however, was followed; her father and she, and Connor, during the summer and autumn months, visited among their acquaintances and friends, by whom they were treated with the greatest and most considerate kindness; but, so far as poor Helen was concerned, no symptom of any salutary change became visible; the long, dull blank of departed reason was still unbroken.

* * * * * * *

Better than seven years—­and a half had now elapsed, when she and her father came by invitation to pay a visit to a Mr. Hamilton, grandfather to the late Dacre Hamilton of Monaghan, who—­the grandfather we mean—­was one of the most notorious priest-hunters of the day, We need not say that her faithful Connor was still in attendance.  Old Folliard went riding out with his friend, for he was now so much debilitated as to be scarcely able to walk abroad for any distance, when, about the hour of two o’clock, a man in the garb, and with all the bearing of a perfect gentleman, knocked at the door, and inquired of the servant who opened it whether Miss Folliard were not there.  The servant replied in the affirmative, upon which the stranger asked if he could see her.

“Why, I suppose you must be aware, sir, of Miss Folliard’s unfortunate state of mind, and that she can see nobody; sir, she knows nobody, and I have strict orders to deny her to every one unless some particular friend of the family.”

The stranger put a guinea into his hand, and added, “I had the pleasure of knowing her before she lost her reason, and as I have not seen her since, I should be glad to see her now, or even to look on her for a few minutes.”

“Come up, sir,” replied the man, “and enter the drawing-room immediately after me, or I shall be ordered to deny her.”

The gentleman followed him; but why did his cheek become pale, and why did his heart palpitate as if it would burst and bound out of his bosom?  We shall see.  On entering the drawing-room he bowed, and was about to apologize for his intrusion, when the Cooleen Bawn, recognizing him as a stranger, approached him and said: 

“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?  They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him.  Oh, can you tell me any thing about William Reilly?”

The stranger staggered at this miserable sight, but probably more at the contemplation of that love which not even insanity could subdue.  He felt himself obliged to lean for support upon the back of a chair, during which brief space he fixed his eyes upon her with a look of the most inexpressible tenderness and sorrow.