the shame which resulted from her fall and her infamy; and though last not least, the terrible apprehension that the hapless girl had rushed by suicidal means into the presence of an offended God, “unanointed, unaneled,” with all her sins upon her head.  Her clothes were hanging from the branches of a large burdock* against the wall, and from time to time the father cast his eyes upon them with a look in which might be read the hollow but terrible expression of despair.

* The branches of the burdock, when it is cut, trimmed, and seasoned, are used by the humble classes to hang their clothes upon.  They grow upwards towards the top of the stalk, and, in consequence of this, are capable of sustaining the heaviest garment.

Honest Barney felt his heart deeply moved by all this, and, sooth to say, his natural cheerfulness and lightness of spirit completely abandoned him at the contemplation of the awful anguish which pressed them down.  There is nothing which makes such a coward of the heart as the influence of such a scene.  He felt that he stood within a circle of misery, and that it was a solemn and serious task even to enter into conversation with them.  But, as he had come to make friendly inquiries about the unfortunate girl, he forced himself to break this pitiable but terrible silence of despair.

“I know,” said he, with a diffident and melancholy spirit, “that it is painful to you all to make the inquiries that I wish to make; but still let me ask you if you have got any account of her?”

The mother’s heart had been bursting-pent up as it were—­and this allusion to her withdrew the floodgates of its sorrow; she spread out her arms, and fising up approached her husband, and throwing them about his neck, exclaimed, in tones of the most penetrating grief,—­

“O, Torley, Torley, my husband, was she not our dearest and our best?”

The husband embraced her with a flood of tears.

“She was,” said he, “she was.”  But immediately looking upon her sister Dora, he said, “Dora, come here—­bring Dora to me,” and his wife went over and brought her to him.

“O, Dora dear,” said he, “I love you.  But, darling, I never loved you as I loved her.”

“But was I ever jealous of that, father?” replied Dora, with tears.  “Didn’t we all love her? and did any one of you love her more than myself?  Wasn’t she the pride of the whole family?  But I didn’t care about her disgrace, father, if we had her back with us.  She might repent; and if she did, every one would forgive their favorite—­for sure she was every one’s favorite; and above all, God would forgive her.”