“You will,” said she, approaching the other—­“you will, after your escape the other day; you—­no, ah! no—­I won’t now; I forgot myself.  Come, father,—­come, come; my last quarrel with her is over.”

“Ay,” returned Nelly, as they went out, “there you go, an’ a sweet pair you are—­father and daughter!”

“Now, father,” resumed Sarah, after they had got out of hearing, “will you tell me if you slep’ well last night?”

“Why do you ax?” he replied; “to be sure I did.”

“I’ll tell you why I ax,” she answered; “do you know that you went last night—­in the middle of the night—­to the murdhered man’s grave, in the glen there?”

It is impossible to express the look of astonishment and dismay which he turned up on her at these words.

“Sarah!” he said, sternly; but she interrupted him.

“It’s thruth,” said she; “an I went with—­”

“What are you spakin’ about?  Me go out, an’ not know it!  Nonsense!”

“You went in your sleep, she rejoined.

“Did I spake?” said he, with a black and; ghastly look. 
“What—­what—­tell me—­eh?  What did I say?”

“You talked a good deal, an’ said that it was Condy Dalton that murdhered him, and that you had Red Rody to prove it.”

“That was what I said?—­eh, Sarah?”

“That’s what you said, an’ I thought it was only right to tell you.”

“It was right, Sarah; but at the same time, at the peril of your life, never folly me there again.  Of coorse, you know now that Sullivan is buried there.”

“I do,” said she; “but that’s no great comfort, although it is to know that you didn’t murdher him.  At any rate, father, remember what I tould you about Condy Dalton.  Lave him to God; an’ jist that you may feel what you ought to feel on the subject, suppose you were in his situation—­suppose for a minute that it was yourself that murdhered him—­then ask, would you like to be dragged out from us and hanged, in your ould age, like a dog—­a disgrace to all belongin’ to you.  Father, I’ll believe that Condy Dalton murdhered him, when I hear it from his own lips, but not till then.  Now, Good-bye.  You won’t find me at home when you come back, I think.”

“Why, where are you goin’?”

“There’s plenty for me to do,” she replied; “there’s the sick an’ the dyin’ on all hands about me, an’ it’s a shame for any one that has a heart in their body, to see their fellow-creatures gaspin’ for want of a dhrop of cowld wather to wet their lips, or a hand to turn them where they lie.  Think of how many poor sthrangers is lyin’ in ditches an’ in barns, an’ in outhouses, without a livin’ bein’ a’most to look to them, or reach them any single thing they want; no, even to bring the priest to them, that they might die reconciled to the Almighty.  Isn’t it a shame, then, for me, an’ the likes o’ me, that has health an’ strength, an’ nothin’ to do, to see my fellow-creatures dyin’ on all hands about me, for want of the very assistance that I can afford them.  At any rate, I wouldn’t live in the house with that woman, an’ you know that, an’ that I oughtn’t.”