He went over, as he spoke, Sarah still having her hand upon his arm, as if to intimate her anxiety to keep him under such control as might prevent him from awakening them; and, standing first over the miserable bed where Nancy slept, he looked down upon her.

“Ay,” said he, while the tears showered down his cheeks, “there lies the child that never vexed a parent’s heart or ruffled one of our tempers.  May the blessin’, if it is a blessin’, or can be a blessin’—­”

“It is, it is,” said Sarah, with a quick, short sob; “it is a blessin’, an’ a holy blessin’; but bless him—­bless him, too!”

“May my blessin’ rest upon you, or rather may the blessin’ of Almighty God, rest upon you, daughter of my heart!  And you too,” he proceeded, turning to the other bed; “here is him that among them all I loved the best; my youngest, an’ called afther myself—­may my blessin’ an’ the blessin’ of God and my Saviour rest upon you, my darlin’ son; an’ if I never see either of you in this unhappy world, grant, oh, merciful Father, that we may meet in the glory of Heaven, when that stain will be taken away from me for that crime that I have repented for so long an’ so bittherly?”

Sarah, while he spoke, had let go his arm, and placing her two hands over her eyes, her whole breast quivered; and the men, on looking at her, saw the tears gushing out in torrents from between her finger.  She turned round, however, for a few moments, as if to compose herself; and, when she again approached the old man, there was a smile—­a smile, brilliant, but agitated, in her eyes and upon her lips.

“There now,” she proceeded; “you have said all you can say; come, go with them.  Ah,” she exclaimed with a start of pain, “all we’ve done or tried to do is lost, I doubt.  Here’s his wife and daughter.  Come out now,” said she addressing him, “say a word or two to them outside.”

Just as she spoke, Mrs. Dalton and the poor invalid, Mary, entered the house:  the one with some scanty supply of food, and the other bearing a live coal between two turf, one under and the other over it.

“Wait,” said Sarah, “I’ll speak to them before they come in.”  And, ere the words were uttered, she met them.

“Come here, Mrs. Dalton,” said she; “stop a minute, speak to this poor girl, and support her.  These sogers, and the constables inside, is come about Sullivan’s business, long ago.”

“I know it,” replied Mrs. Dalton; “I’ve just heard all about it, there beyond; but she,” pointing to her daughter, “has only crossed the ditch from the commons, and joined me this minute.”

“Give me these,” said Sarah to the girl, “and stay here till I come out again, wet as it is.  Your mother will tell you why.”

She took the fire from her as she spoke, and, running in, laid it upon the hearth, placing, at the same time, two or three turf about in a hurried manner, but still in a way that argued great presence of mind, amid all her distraction.  On going out again, however, the first object she saw was one of the soldiers supporting the body of poor Mary, who had sunk under the intelligence.  Mrs. Dalton having entered the cabin, and laid down the miserable pittance of food which she had been carrying, now waved her hand with authority and singular calmness, but at the same time with a face as pallid as death itself.