all for the love you bore her, how can my heart bear it, and how can I live.  O, the destroyer, the villain! the devil! what has he wrought upon us!  But, thank God, he is punished—­the father’s love punished him.  They are liars! you are no murderer.  The mother’s heart within me tells me that you did what was right—­you acted like a man, my husband.  God bless you, and make your soul happy for its love to Nannie.  I’ll kiss you, Harry—­I’ll kiss you, my heart’s treasure, for your noble deed—­but O Harry, you don’t know the lips of sorrow that kiss! you now.  Sure they are the lips of your own Rose, that gave her young heart to you, and was happy for it.  Don’t feel ashamed, Harry; it’s a good man’s case to die the death you did, and be at rest, as I hope you are, for you are not a murderer; and if you are, it is only in the eye of the law, and it was your love for Nannie that did it.”

This woeful dirge of the mother’s heart, and the wife’s sorrow, had almost every eye in tears; and, indeed, it was impossible that the sympathy for her should not be deep and general.  They all knew the excellence and mildness of her husband’s character, and that every word she uttered concerning him was truth.

In Irish wakehouses, it is to be observed, the door is never closed.  The heat of the house, and the crowding of the neighbors to it, render it necessary that it should be open; but independently of this, we believe it a general custom, as it is also to keep it so during meals.  This last arises from the spirit of hospitality peculiar to the Irish people.

When his wife had uttered the words “you are no murderer,” a young and beautiful girl entered the house in sufficient time to have heard them distinctly.  She was tall, her shape was of the finest symmetry, her features, in spite of the distraction which, at first glance, was legible in them, were absolutely fascinating.  They all knew her well; but the moment she made her appearance, the conversation, and those expressions of sympathy which were passing from one to another, were instantly checked; and nothing now was felt but compassion for the terrible ordeal that they knew was before her mother.  She rushed up to where her mother had sat down, her eyes flashing, and her long brown hair floating about her white shoulders, which were but scantily covered.

“You talk of a murderer, mother,” she exclaimed.  “You talk of a murderer, do you?  But if murder has been committed, as it has, I am the murderer.  Keep back now, let me look upon my innocent father—­upon that father that I have murdered.”

She approached the bed on which he lay, her eyes still flashing, and her bosom panting, and there she stood gazing upon his features for about two minutes.

The silence of the corpse before them was not deeper than that which her unexpected presence occasioned.  There she stood gazing on the dead body of her father, evidently torn by the pangs of agony and remorse, her hands clenching and opening by turns, her wild and unwinking eyes riveted upon those moveless features, which his love for her had so often lit up with happiness and pride.  Her mother, who was alarmed, shocked, stunned, gazed upon her, but could not speak.  At length she herself broke the silence.