“It’s false,” exclaimed Sarah, looking on Dalton, and reasoning apparently with herself; “he never committed a could blooded murdher; an’ the Sullivans are—­are—­oh—­take him away,” she said, still in a low, rapid voice; “take him away!  Come now,” she added, approaching Dalton again; “come—­while they’re asleep, an’ you’ll save them an’ yourself much distress.  I’m not afeard of your wife—­for she can bear it if any wife could—­but I do your poor daughter, an’ she so weak an’ feeble afther her illness; come.”

Dalton looked at her, and said: 

“Who is this girl that seems to feel so much for me? but whoever she is, may God bless her, for I feel that she’s right.  Take me away before they waken! oh, she is right in every word she says, for I am not afeard of my wife—­her trust in God is too firm for anything to shake.  I’m ready; but I fear I’ll scarcely be able to walk all the way—­an’ sich an evenin’ too—­Young woman, will you break this business to these ones, and to my wife, as you can?”

“Oh, I will, I will,” she replied; “as well as I can; you did well to say so,” she added, in a low voice to herself; “an’ I’ll stay here with your sick family, an’ I’ll watch an’ attend them.  Whatever can be done by the like o’ me for them, I’ll do.  I’ll—­I’ll not lave them—­I’ll nurse them—­I’ll take care of them—­I’ll beg for them—­oh, what would I not do for them?” and while speaking she bent over young Con’s bed, and clasping her hands, and wringing them several times, she repeated “oh what wouldn’t I do for you!”

“May God bless you, best of girls, whoever you are!  Come, now, I’m ready.”

“Ay,” said Sarah, running over to him, “that’s right—­I’ll break the bitter news to them as well as it can be done; come, now.”

The old man stood, in the midst of his desolation, with his hat in his hand, and he looked towards the beds.

“Poor things!” he exclaimed; “what a change has come over you, for what you wanst, an’ that not long since, wor.  Never, my darlin’ childhre—­oh, never did one harsh or undutiful word come from your lips to your unhappy father.  In my ould age and misery I’m now lavin’ you—­may be forever—­never, maybe, to see you again in this world; an’ oh, my God, if we are never to meet in the other; if the innocent and the guilty is never to meet, then this is my last look at you, for everlastin’, for everlastin’!  I can’t do it,” he added, weeping bitterly—­“I must take my lave of them; I must kiss their lips.”

Sarah, while he spoke, had uttered two or three convulsive sobs; but she shed no tears; on the contrary, her eyes were singularly animated and brilliant.  She put her arms about him, and said, in a soothing and solicitous tone: 

“Oh, no, it’s all thrue; but if you kiss them, you’ll disturb and waken them; and then, you know, when they see you taken away in this manner, an’ hears what it’s for, it may be their death.”

“Thrue, achora; thrue:  well, I will only look at them, then.  Let me keep my eyes on them for a little; may be they may go first, an’ may be I may go first; the last time, may be, for everlastin’, that I’ll see them!”