Sarah’s whole soul, however, in all its best and noblest sympathies, had passed into and mingled with the scene of unparalleled misery which was then before her.  She went rapidly to the bed in which young Con was I stretched; stooped down, and looking closely at him, perceived that he was in a broken and painful slumber.  She then passed to that in which his sister lay, and saw that she was also asleep.  After a glance at each, she rubbed her hands with a kind of wild satisfaction, and going up to old Dalton, exclaimed—­for she had not heard a syllable of the language used towards her by the officer of justice—­

“Ay,” said she, laying her hand upon his white hairs; “you are to be pitied this night, poor ould man; but which of you, oh, which of you is to be pitied most, you or them! an’ your wife, too; an’ your other daughter, an’ your other son, too; but he’s past under-standin’ it; oh, what will they do?  At your age, too—­at your age!  Oh, couldn’t you die?—­couldn’t you contrive, someway, to die?—­couldn’t you give one great struggle, an’ then break your heart at wanst, an’ forever!”

These words were uttered rapidly, but in a low and cautious voice, for she still feared to awaken those who slept.

The old man had also been absorbed in, his own misery; for he looked at her inquiringly, and only replied, “Poor girl, what is it you’re saying?”

“I’m biddin’ you to die,” she replied, “if you can, you needn’t be afeard of God—­he has punished you enough for the crime you have committed.  Try an’ die, if you can—­or if you can’t—­oh,” she exclaimed, “I pray God that you—­that he, there—­” and she ran and bent over young Con’s bed for a moment; “that you—­that you may never recover, or live to see what you must see.”

“It’s a fact, that between hunger and this sickness,” continued he who had addressed her last, “they say an’ I know that there’s great number of people silly; but I think this lady is downright mad; what do you mane, you clip?”

Sarah stared at him impatiently, but without any anger.

“He doesn’t hear me,” she added, again putting her hand in a distracted manner upon Dalton’s gray hair; “no, no; but since it can’t be so, there’s not a minute to be lost.  Oh, take him away, now,” she proceeded, “take him away while they’re asleep, an’ before his wife and daughter comes home—­take him away, now; and spare him—­spare them—­spare them all as much sufferin’ as you can.”

“There’s not much madness in that, Jack,” returned one of them; “I think it would be the best thing we could do.  Are you ready to come now, Dalton?” asked the man.

“Who’s that,” said the old man, in a voice of indescribable woe and sorrow; “who’s that was talkin’ of a broken heart?  Oh, God,” he exclaimed, looking up to Heaven, with a look of intense agony, “support me—­support them; and if it be your blessed will, pity us all; but above all things, pity them, oh, Heavenly Father, and don’t punish them for my sin!”