“I am now an old man, and have witnessed many instances of error, and sin, and deep crime, but never before have I seen in persons of your early years, such instances—­such awful, terrible instances—­of that impenitence in which the heart, setting aside God and his sacred ordinances, is given over to the hardness of final reprobation.  I can do no more, as the ambassador of Christ, but I must not stand by and see a fellow-creature—­oh! thank God,” he exclaimed, “a thought recurs to my mind which had for a time passed out of it.  My good friend,” he said, addressing old M’Loughlin, “will you bring Mary in, if she is able to come—­say I request to see her here.”

“We will go now,” said the eldest, “you can want us no longer.”

“You shall not go,” replied Father Roche firmly, “if you are men, stay—­or, if cowards, who are afraid to look into the depths of your own dark designs, you will and may go—­we want you not.”  This language perplexed them, but they stood as before, and moved not.

In a few minutes Mary came in, leaning on her father’s arm; but, ah! what a change from the elegant outline and clear, healthy cheek—­from the red plump lips, and dark mellow eyes, which carried fascination in every glance and grace in every motion!  Sweet, and beautiful, and interesting, she still unquestionably was, but her pale cheek, languid eye, and low tremulous voice, told a tale, which, when the cause of it was reflected on, had literally scorched up out of her brother’s hearts every remaining vestige of humanity.

“Mary,” said the priest, we have requested your presence, my child, for a most important purpose—­and, in communicating that purpose to you, we indeed give the strongest proof of our confidence in your firmness and good sense—­nay, I will add, in the truth and fervor of your dependence on the sustaining power of religion.”

“In my own strength or discretion I will never depend more,” she replied, sighing deeply.

“You must exert great courage and firmness now, then,” rejoined Father Roche; “In the first place, you are about to have a disclosure made which will be apt to shock you; and, in the next place, I have only to say, that it is the absolute necessity of your knowing it, in order to prevent dreadful consequences from ensuing upon it, that forces us to make you cognizant of it at all.”

“I trust I shall endeavor at least to bear it,” she returned; “I am not strong, and I do not think that too much preparation will add to my strength.”

“I agree with you, my child,” said Father Roche, “and have only made such as I deemed indispensably necessary.  The fact then is, my poor girl, that your brothers meditate violence against that most base and wicked person who—­”

“I know, sir, the person to whom you allude; but I will thank you, if you can avoid it, not to name him.”

“I have no such intention,” replied the good man, “but bad and profligate as he is, it is still worse that your three brothers should propose such violence.”