“Might it not be possible that she is with him?” he asked again.

“No, Barney,” replied her mother, “we know Shawn too well for that.  He knows how we loved her, and what we would suffer by her absence.  Shawn, though driven to be an outlaw, has a kind heart, and would never allow us to suffer what we are sufferin’ on her account.  O, no! we know Shawn too well for that.”

“Well,” replied Barney, meditatively, “there’s one thing I’m inclined to think:  that whoever was the means of bringing shame and disgrace upon poor Granua will get a touch of his middogue that won’t fail as the first did.  Shawn now knows his man, and, with the help of God, I hope he won’t miss his next blow.  I must now go; and before I do, let me tell you that, as I said before, Masther Charles is as innocent of the shame brought upon poor Granua as the king of Jerusalem.”

There is a feeling of deep but silent sorrow which weighs down the spirit after the death of some beloved individual who is taken away from among the family circle.  It broods upon, and casts a shadow of the most profound gloom over the bereaved heart; but let a person who knew the deceased, and is capable of feeling a sincere and friendly sympathy for the survivors, enter into this circle of sorrow; let him or her dwell upon the memory of the departed; then that silent and pent-up grief bursts out, and the clamor of lamentation is loud and vehement.  It was so upon this occasion.  When Barney rose to take his departure, a low murmur of grief assailed his ears; it gradually became more loud; it increased; it burst into irrepressible violence—­they wept aloud; they flew to her clothes, which hung, as we said, motionless upon the stalk of burdock against the wall; they kissed them over and over again; and it was not until Barney, now deeply affected, succeeded in moderating their sorrow, that these strong and impassioned paroxysms were checked and subdued into something like reasonable grief.  Having consoled and pacified them as far as it was in his power, he then took his departure under a feeling of deep regret that no account of the unfortunate girl had been obtained.

The next day Mrs. Lindsay and Harry prepared to pay the important visit.  As before, the old family carriage was furbished up, and the lady once more enveloped in her brocades and satins.  Harry, too, made it a point to appear in his best and most becoming habiliments; and, truth to tell, an exceedingly handsome and well-made young fellow he was.  The dress of the day displayed his manly and well-proportioned limbs to the best advantage, whilst his silver-hilted sword, in addition to the general richness of his costume, gave him the manner and appearance of an accomplished cavalier.  Barney’s livery was also put a second time into requisition, and the coachman’s cocked hat was freshly crimped for the occasion.

“Is it true, mother?” inquired Harry, as they went along, “that this old noodle has built his residence as much after the shape of a cockle-shell as was possible to be accomplished?”