“It’s the unhappy an’ miserable state that these poor Daltons is in,” she replied.  “Father, dear, forgive me for what I’m about to say; for, although it may make you angry, there’s nothin’ farther from my heart than to give you offence.”

“You needn’t tell me so, Mave; you need not, indeed; but sure you know, darlin’, that unfortunately, we have nothing in our power to do for them; I wish to the Lord we had!  Didn’t we do all that people in our poor condition could do for them?  Didn’t you, yourself, achora, make us send them such little assistance as we could spare?—­ay, even to sharin’ I may say, our last morsel wid them; an’ now, darlin’, you know we haven’t it.”

“I know that,” she replied, as she wiped away the tears; “where is there a poorer family than we are, sure enough? but, father, dear; we can assist them—­relieve them; ay, maybe save them—­for all that.”

“God be praised then!” exclaimed Sullivan; “only show me how, an’ we’ll be glad to do it; for I can forget everything now, Mave, but their distress.”

“But do you know the condition they’re in at this moment?” she asked, “do you know, father, that they’re stretched on the bed of sickness?  I mean Nancy an’—­an’ young Con, who has got into a relapse; poor Mary is scarcely able to go about, she’s so badly recovered from the fever; an’ Tom, the wild unfortunate young man, is out of his senses, they say.  Then there’s nobody to look to them but Mrs. Dalton herself; an’ she, you know, has to go ‘out’ to ask their poor bit from the neighbors.  Only think,” she proceeded, with a fresh burst of sorrow, “oh, only think, father, of sich a woman bein’ forced to this!”

“May the Lord pity her an’ them, this woeful day!” exclaimed Sullivan.

“Now, father,” proceeded Mave; “I know—­oh who knows better or so well—­what a good an’ a kind an’ a forgivin’ heart you have; an’ I know that even in spite of the feelin’ that was, and maybe is, upon your mind against them, you’ll grant me my wish in what I’m goin’ to ask.”

“What is it then?—­let me hear it.”

“It’s this:  you know that here, in our family I can do nothing to help ourselves—­that is, there is nothing for me to do—­an’ I feel the time hang heavy on my hands.  I have been thinkin’, father dear, of this miserable state the poor Daltons is in, without any one to attend them in their sickness—­to say a kind word to them, or to hand them even a drink of clean water, if they wanted it.  Them that hasn’t got the fever yet, won’t go near them for fear of catchin’ it.  What, then, will become of them?  There they are, without the face, or hand, or voice of kindness about them.  Oh, what on God’s blessed earth will become of them?  They may die an’ they must die, for want of care and assistance.”

“But sure that’s not our fault, dear Mave; we can’t help them.”

“We can, father—­an’ we must; for if we don’t they’ll die.  Father,” she added, laying her wasted hand in his; “it is my intention to go over to them—­an’ as I have nothing that I can do at home, to spend the greater part of the day with them in takin’ care of them—­an’—­an’ in doin’ what I can for them, Yes, father dear—­it is my intention—­for there is none but me to do it for them.”