At length the woman began to recover.

She sobbed aloud, and a copious flow of tears drenched her cheeks.  Nell ordered her to tear herself from O’Rorke and his wife:—­ “Their hands are bad about you,” she exclaimed, “and their son has robbed you, Mary.  Lave them, I say, or it will be worse for you.”

The woman paid her no attention; on the contrary, she laid her head on the bosom of O’Rorke’s wife, and wept as if her heart would break.

“God help me!” she exclaimed with a bitter sense of her situation, “I am an unhappy, an’ a heart-broken woman!  For many a year I have not known what it is to have a friendly breast to weep on.”

She then caught O’Rorke’s hand and kissed it affectionately, after which she wept afresh;

“Merciful heaven!” said she’—­“oh, how will I ever be able to meet my husband! and such a husband! oh, heavens pity me!”

Both O’Rorke and his wife stood over her in tears.  The latter bent her head, kissed the stranger, and pressed her to her bosom.  “May God bless you!” said O’Rorke himself solemnly; “trust in Him, for he can see justice done to you when man fails.”

The eyes of Nell glared at the group like those of an enraged tigress:  she stamped her feet upon the floor, and struck it repeatedly with her stick, as she was in the habit of doing, when moved by strong and deadly passions.

“You’ll suffer for that, Mary,” she exclaimed; “and as for you, Lamh Laudher More, my debt’s not paid to you yet.  Your son’s a robber, an I’ll prove it before long; every one knows he’s a coward too.”

Mr. Brookleigh felt that there appeared to be something connected with the transactions of the preceding night, as well as with some of the persons who had come before him, that perplexed him not a little.  He thought that, considering the serious nature of the charge preferred against young O’Rorke, he exhibited an apathy under it, that did not altogether argue innocence.  Some unsettled suspicions entered his mind, but not with sufficient force to fix with certainty upon any of those present, except Nell and Nanse M’Collum who had absconded.  If Nell were the woman’s mother, her anxiety to bring the criminal to justice appeared very natural.  Then, again, young O’Rorke’s father, who seemed to know the history of Nell M’Collum, denied that she ever had a daughter.  How could he be certain that she had not, without knowing her private life thoroughly?  These circumstances appeared rather strange, if not altogether incomprehensible; so much so, indeed, that he thought it necessary, before they separated, to speak with O’Rorke’s family in private.  Having expressed a wish to this effect, he dismissed the other parties, except Nell, whom he intended to keep confined until the discovery of her niece.

“Pray,” said he to the father of our humble hero, “how do you know, O’Rorke, that Nell M’Collum never had a daughter?”

“Right well, your honor.  I knew her since she was a child; an’ from that day to this she was never six months from this town at a time.  No, no—­a son she had, but a daughter she never had.”