On the morning after old Dalton’s removal to prison, Jerry Sullivan and his family were all assembled around a dull fire, the day being, as usual, so wet that it was impossible to go out unless upon some matter of unusual importance; there was little said, for although they had hitherto escaped the fever, still their sufferings and struggles were such as banished cheerfulness from among them.  Mave appeared more pale and dejected than they had ever yet seen her, and it was noticed by one or two of the family, that she had been occasionally weeping in some remote corner of the house where she thought she might do so without being observed.

“Mave, dear,” said her father, “what is the matter wid you?  You look, darlin’, to be in very low spirits to-day.  Were you cryin’?”

She raised her large innocent eyes upon him, and they instantly filled with tears.

“I can’t keep it back from you, father,” she replied, “let me do as I will—­an’ oh, father dear, when we look out upon the world that is in it, an’ when we see how the hand o’ God is takin’ away so many from among us, and when we see how the people everywhere is sufferin’ and strugglin’ wid so much—­how one is here this day, and in a week to come in the presence of their Judge!  Oh, surely, when we see all the doin’s of death and distress about us, we ought to think that it’s no time to harbor hatred or any other bad or unchristian feelin’s in our hearts!”

“It is not, indeed, darlin’; an’ I hope nobody here does.”

“No,” she replied; and as she spoke, the vibrations of sorrow and of sympathy shook her naturally sweet voice into that tender expression which touches the heart of the hearer with such singular power—­“no, father,” she proceeded, “I hope not; religion teaches us a different lesson—­not only to forgive our enemies, but to return good for evil.”

“It does, achora machree,” replied her father, whose eyes expressed a kind of melancholy pride, as he contemplated his beautiful but sorrowful looking girl, giving utterance to truths which added an impressive and elevated character to her beauty.

“Young and ould, achushla machree, is fallin’ about us in every direction; but may the Father of Mercy spare you to us, my darlin’ child, for if anything was to happen you, where—­Oh, where could we look upon your aiquil, or find anything that could console us for your loss?”

“If it’s my fate to go, father, I’ll go, an if it isn’t God will take care of me; whatever comes, I’m resigned to His will.”

“Ay, dear, an’ you ever wor, too—­and for the same raison God’s blessin’ will be upon you; but what makes you look so low, avourneen?  I trust in my Saviour, you are not unwell, Mave, dear.”

“Thanks be to God, no, father; but there’s a thing on my mind, that’s distressin’ me very much, an’ I hope you’ll allow me my way in it.”

“I may say so, dear; because I know you wouldn’t ax me for anything that ’ud be wrong to grant you.  What is it, Mave?”