“Now,” said Una, rising into a spirit of; unexpected fortitude, “now, Connor, I will be her daughter, and you must be her son.  The moment she recovers we must separate, and in such a manner as to show that our affection for each other shall not be injurious to her.”

“It is nature only,” said her brother; “or, in other words, the love that is natural to such a mother for such a son, that has overcome her.  Connor, this must be ended.”

“I am willing it should,” replied the other.  “You must assist them home, and let me see you again tomorrow.  I have something of the deepest importance to say to you.”

Una’s bottle of smelling salts soon relieved the woe-worn mother; and, ere the lapse of many minutes, she was able to summon her own natural firmness of character.  The lovers, too, strove to be firm; and, after one long and last embrace, they separated from Connor with more composure than, from the preceding scene, might have been expected.

The next day, according to promise, John O’Brien paid him an early visit, in order to hear what Connor had assured him was of more importance even than Una’s life itself.  Their conference was long and serious, for each felt equally interested in its subject-matter.  When it was concluded, and they had separated, O’Brien’s friends observed that he appeared like a man whose mind was occupied by something that occasioned him to feel deep anxiety.  What the cause of this secret care was, he did not disclose to anyone except his father, to whom, in a few days afterwards, he mentioned it.  His college vacation had now nearly expired; but it was mutually agreed upon, in the course of the communication he then made, that for the present he should remain with them at home, and postpone his return to Maynooth, if not abandon the notion of the priesthood altogether.  When the Bodagh left his son, after this dialogue, his open, good-humored countenance seemed clouded, his brow thoughtful, and his whole manner that of a man who has heard something more than usually unpleasant; but, whatever this intelligence was, he, too, appeared equally studious to conceal it.  The day now arrived on which Connor O’Donovan was to see his other parent for the last time, and this interview he dreaded, on the old man’s account, more than he had done even the separation from his mother.  Our readers may judge, therefore, of his surprise on finding that his father exhibited a want of sorrow or of common feeling that absolutely amounted almost to indifference.

Connor felt it difficult to account for a change so singular and extraordinary in one with whose affection for himself he was so well acquainted.  A little time, however, and an odd hint or two thrown out in the early part of their conversation, soon enabled him to perceive, either that the old man labored under some strange hallucination, or had discovered a secret source of comfort known only to himself.  At length, it appeared to the son that he had discovered the cause of this unaccountable change in the conduct of his father; and, we need scarcely assure our readers, that his heart sank into new and deeper distress at the words from which he drew the inference.