“I would know him to be Andy Hart’s son, God rest him!” observed Lamh Laudher More, “any where over the world.  Blessed mother of heaven!—­down on your knees, you miserable crature, down on your knees for her pardon!  You’ve murdhered your unfortunate mother!”

The man gave one loud and fearful yell, and dashed himself on the floor at his mother’s feet, an appalling picture of remorse.  The scene, indeed, was a terrible one.  He rolled himself about, tore his hair, and displayed every symptom of a man in a paroxysm of madness.  But among those present, with the exception of the mother and son, there was not such a picture of distress and sorrow, as the wife of the Dead Boxer.  She stooped down to raise the stranger up; “Unhappy man,” said she, “look up, I am your sister!”

“No,” said Nell, “no—­no—­no.  There’s more of my guilt.  Lamh Laudher More, I stand forrid, you and your wife.  You lost a daughter long ago.  Open your arms and take her back a blameless woman.  She’s your child that I robbed you of as one punishment; the other blow that I intended for you has been struck here.  I’m dyin’.”

A long cry of joy burst from the mother and daughter, as they rushed into each other’s arms.  Nature, always strongest in pure minds, even before this denouement, had, indeed, rekindled the mysterious flame of her own affection in their hearts.  The father pressed her to his bosom, and forgot the terrors of the sound before him, whilst the son embraced her with a secret consciousness that she was, indeed, his long-lost sister.

“We couldn’t account,” said her parents, “for the way we loved you the day we met you before the magistrate; every word you said, Alice darling, went into our hearts wid delight, an’ we could hardly ever think of your voice ever since, that the tears didn’t spring to our eyes.  But we never suspected, as how could we, that you were our child.”

She declared that she felt the same mysterious attachment to them, and to her brother also, from the moment she heard the tones of his voice on the night the robbery was attempted.

“Nor could I,” said Lamh Laudher Oge, “account for the manner I loved you.”

Their attention was now directed to Nell, who again spoke.

“Nanse, give her back the money I robbed her of.  There was more of my villainy, but God fought against me, an’—­here—.  You will find, it along with her marriage certificate, an’ the gospel she had about her neck, when I kidnapped her, all in my pocket.  Where’s my son?  Still, still, bad as I am, an’ bad as he is, isn’t he my child?  Amn’t I his mother? put his hand in mine, and let me die as a mother ’ud wish!”

Never could there be a more striking contrast witnessed than that between the groups then present; nor a more impressive exemplification of the interposition of Providence to reward the virtuous and punish the guilty even in this life.