We cannot close our description here, however; for sorry we are to say, that the severe traces of poverty were as visible upon the inmates themselves as upon the house and its furniture.  Sullivan’s family consisted of his eldest daughter, aged nineteen, two growing boys, the eldest about sixteen, and several younger children besides.  These last were actually ragged—­all of them were scantily and poorly clothed; and if any additional proof were wanting that poverty, in one of its most trying shapes, had come among them, it was to be found in their pale, emaciated features, and in that languid look of care and depression, which any diminution in the natural quantity of food for any length of time uniformly impresses upon the countenance.  In fact, the whole group had a sickly and wo-worn appearance, as was evident from the unnatural dejection of the young, who, instead of exhibiting the cheerfulness and animation of youth, now moped about without gayety, sat brooding in corners, or struggled for a warm place nearest to the dull and cheerless fire.

“The day was, Donnel,” said Sullivan, whilst he pointed, with a sigh, to the unfurnished chimney, “when we could give you—­as I said awhile agone—­a betther welcome—­in one sense—­I mane betther tratement—­than we can give you now; but you know the times that is in it, an’ you know the down-come we have got, an’ that the whole country has got—­so you must only take the will for the deed now—­to such as we have you’re heartily welcome.  Get us some dinner, Bridget,” he added, turning to his wife; “but, first and foremost, bring that girl into the room here till she hears what I have to say to her; and, Donnel, as you wor a witness to the disgraceful sight we seen a while agone, come in an’ hear, too, what I’m goin’ to say to her.  I’ll have no black thraisin in my own family against my own blood, an’ against the blood of my loving brother, that was so traicherously shed by that boy’s father.”

The persons he addressed immediately passed into the cold, damp room as he spoke—­Mave, the cause of all this anxiety, evidently in such a state of excitement as was pitiable.  Her mother, who, as well as every other member of the family, had been ignorant of this extraordinary attachment, seemed perfectly bewildered by the language of her husband, at whom, as at her daughter, she looked with a face on which might be read equal amazement and alarm.

Mave Sullivan was a young creature, shaped with extraordinary symmetry, and possessed of great natural grace.  Her stature was tall, and all her motions breathed; unstudied ease and harmony.  In color, her long, abundant hair was beautifully fair—­precisely of that delightful shade which generally accompanies a pale but exquisitely clear and almost transparent complexion.  Her face was oblong, and her features so replete with an expression of innocence and youth, as left on the beholder a conviction that she breathed of utter guilelessness and angelic purity itself.