Mave started and got pale at the words.  “Great God!” she exclaimed, “don’t say so, Con dear.  Oh, no, no—­is it your father that was always so good, an’ so generous to every one that stood in need of it at his hands, an’ who was also so charitable to the poor?”

“Ay,” said he, “he was charitable to the poor; but of late I’ve heard him say things that nobody but a man that has some great crime to answer for could or would say.  I believe too that what the public says is right:  that it’s the hand of God Himself that’s upon him an’ us for that murdher.”

“But maybe,” said Mave, who still continued pale and trembling; “maybe it was accidentally afther all; a chance blow, maybe; but whatever it was, dear Con, let us spake no more about it.  I am not able to listen to it; it would sicken me soon.”

“Very well, dear, we’ll drop it; an’ I hope I’m wrong; for I can’t think, afther all, that a man with such a kind and tendher heart as my father—­a pious man, too; could—­” he paused a moment, and then added; “oh! no; I’m surely wrong; he never did the act.  However, as we said, I’ll drop it; for indeed, dear Mave, I have enough that’s sorrowful and heartbreakin’ to spake about, over and above that unfortunate subject.”

“I hope,” said Mave, “that there’s nothing worse than your own illness; an’ you know, thanks be to the Almighty, you’re recoverin’ fast from that.”

“My poor lovin’ sister Nancy,” said he, “was laid down yesterday morning with this terrible faver; she was our chief dependence; we could stand it out no longer; I could, an’ can do nothing; an’ my mother this mornin’”—­His tears fell so fast, and his affliction was so deep, that he was not able, for a time to proceed.

“Oh! what about her?” asked Mave, participating in his grief; “oh! what about her that every one loves?”

“She was obliged to go out this mornin’,” he proceeded, “to beg openly in the face of day among the neighbors!  Now, Mave Sullivan, farewell!” said he rising, while his face was crimsoned over with shame; “farewell, Mave Sullivan; all, from this minute, is over between you an’ me.  The son of a beggar must never become your husband; will never call you his wife; even if there was no other raison against it.”

The melancholy but lovely girl rose with him; she trembled; she blushed—­and again got pale; then blushed once more; at length she spoke: 

“An’ is that, dear Con, all that you yet know of Mave Sullivan’s heart, or the love for you that’s in it?  Your mother!  Oh! an’ is it come to that with her?  But—­but—­do you think that even that, or anything that wouldn’t be a crime in yourself; or, do you think; oh!  I know not what to say; I see now, dear Con, the raison for the sorrow that’s in your face; the heart-break an’ the care that’s there; I see, indeed, how low in spirits an’ how hopeless you are; an’ I see that although your eye is clear still it’s heavy; heavy with hard affliction; but then,