of imagination, the sinking woman’s misery, and poured forth, in unavailing tears, the undeniable proofs of the sincerity with which she participated in Honor’s bereavement.  As for Flanagan, a deadly weight of odium, such as is peculiar to the Informer in Ireland, fell upon both him and his.  Nor was this all.  Aided by that sagacity which is so conspicuous in Irishmen, when a vindictive or hostile feeling is excited among them, they depicted Flanagan’s character with an accuracy and truth astonishingly correct and intuitive.  Numerous were the instances of cowardice, treachery, and revenge remembered against him, by those who had been his close and early companions, not one of which would have ever occurred to them, were it not that their minds had been thrown back upon the scrutiny by the melancholy fate in which he had involved the unhappy Connor O’Donovan.  Had he been a mere ordinary witness in the matter, he would have experienced little of this boiling indignation at their hands; but first to participate in the guilt, and afterwards, for the sake of the reward, or from a worse and more flagitious motive, to turn upon him, and become his accuser, even to the taking away of the young man’s life—­to stag against his companion and accomplice—­this was looked upon as a crime ten thousand times more black and damnable than that for which the unhappy culprit had been consigned to so shameful a death.

But, alas, of what avail was all this sympathy and indignation to the unfortunate youth himself or to those most deeply interested in his fate?  Would not the very love and sorrow felt towards her son fall upon his mother’s heart with a heavier weight of bitterness and agony?  Would not his Una’s soul be wounded on that account with a sharper and more deadly pang of despair and misery?  It would, indeed, be difficult to say whether the house of Bodagh Buie or that of Fardorougha was then in the deeper sorrow.  On the morning of Connor’s trial, Una arose at an earlier hour than usual, and it was observed when she sat at breakfeast, that her cheek was at one moment pale as death, and again flushed and feverish.  These symptoms were first perceived by her affectionate brother, who, on witnessing the mistakes she made in pouring out the tea, exchanged a glance with his parents, and afterwards asked her to allow him to take her place.  She laid down the tea-pot, and, looking him mournfully in the face, attempted to smile at a request so unusual.

“Una, dear,” said he, “you must allow me.  There is no necessity for attempting to conceal what you feel—­we all know it—­and if we did not, the fact of your having filled the sugar-bowl instead of the tea-cup would soon discover it.”

She said nothing, but looked at him again, as if she scarcely comprehended what he said.  A glance, however, at the sugar-bowl convinced her that she was incapable of performing the usual duties of the breakfast table.  Hitherto she had not raised her eyes to her father or mother’s face, nor spoken to them as had been her wont, when meeting at that strictly domestic meal.  The unrestrained sobbings of the mother now aroused her for the first time, and on looking up, she saw her father wiping away the big tears from his eyes.