Hanna, whose arms were still around her sister’s neck, felt her stagger beneath her on hearing those words from her father.

“You say you saw him, father, and h’ard him vote for Vanston.  You say you did?”

“I both seen the traitor an’ h’ard him,” replied the old man.

“Hanna, dear, let me sit down,” said Kathleen, and Hanna, encircling her with one hand, drew a chair over with the other, on which, with a cheek pale as death, her sister sat, whilst Hanna still wept with her arms about her.  After a long silence, she at last simply said:—­

“I must bear it; but in this world my happiness is gone.”

“Don’t take it so much to heart avourneen,” said her mother; “but, any way, hadn’t you betther see himself, an’ hear what he has to say for himself.  Maybe, afther all, it’s not so bad as it looks.  See him, Kathleen; maybe there’s not so much harm in it yet.”

“No, mother, see him I will not, in that sense—­Bryan M’Mahon a traitor!  Am I a dreamer?  I am not asleep, and Bryan M’Mahon is false to God and his country!  I did think that he would give his life for both, if he was called upon to do so; but not that he would prove false to them as he has done.”

“He has, indeed,” said her father, “and the very person you hate so much, bad as you think him, did all in his power to prevent him from doin’ the black deed.  I seen that, too, and h’ard it.  Hycy persuaded him as much as he could against it; but he wouldn’t listen to him, nor pay him any attention.”

“Kathleen,” said her sister, “the angels in heaven fell, and surely it isn’t wonderful that even a good man should be tempted and fall from the truth as they did?”

Kathleen seemed too much abstracted by her distress to hear this.  She looked around at them all, one after another, and said in a low, composed, and solemn voice, “All is over now between that young man and me—­and here is one request which I earnestly entreat you—­every one of you—­to comply with.”

“What is it darling?” said her mother.

“It is,” she replied, “never in my hearing to mention his name while I live.  As for myself, I will never name him!”

“And think, after all,” observed her father, “of poor Hycy bein’ true to his religion!”

It would seem that her heart was struggling to fling the image of M’Mahon from it, but without effect.  It was likely she tried to hate him for his apostacy, but she could not.  Still, her spirit was darkened with scorn and indignation at the act of dishonor which she felt her lover had committed, just as the atmosphere is by a tempest.  In fact, she detested what she considered the baseness and treachery of the vote; but could not of a sudden change a love so strong, so trusting, and so pure as hers, into the passions of enmity and hatred.  No sooner, however, had her father named Hycy Burke with such approval, than the storm within her directed itself against him,