Sarah went over to the bedside, and putting her hand gently upon his forehead, said—­

“Don’t spake to pity me—­I can’t bear pity; anything at all but pity from you.  Say you don’t care what becomes of me, or whether I die or not—­but don’t pity me.”

It is extremely difficult to describe Sarah’s appearance and state of mind as she spoke this.  Her manner towards Con was replete with tenderness, and the most earnest and anxious interest, while at the same time there ran through her voice a tone of bitter feeling, an evident consciousness of something that pressed strongly on her heart, which gave a marked and startling character to her language.

Mave for a moment forgot everything but the interest which Sarah, and the mention of her, excited.  She turned gently round from Mary, who had been speaking to her, and fixing her eyes on Sarah, examined her with pardonable curiosity, from head to foot; nor will she be blamed, we trust, if, even then and there, the scrutiny was not less close, in consequence of it having been I known to her that in point of beauty, and symmetry of figure, they had stood towards each other, for some time past, in the character of rivals.  Sarah who had on, without stockings, a pair of small slippers, a good deal the worse for wear, had risen from the bed side, and now stood near the fire, directly opposite the only little window in the house, and, consequently, in the best light it afforded.  Mave’s glance, though rapid, was comprehensive; but she felt it was sufficient:  the generous girl, on contemplating the wild grace and natural elegance of Sarah’s figure, and the singular beauty and wonderful animation of her features, instantly, in her own mind, surrendered all claim to competition, and admitted to herself that Sarah was, without exception, the most perfectly beautiful girl she ever seen.  Her last words, too, and the striking tone in which they were spoken, arrested her attention still more; so that she passed naturally from the examination of her person to the purport of her language.

We trust that our readers know enough of human nature, to understand that this examination of Sarah, upon the part of Mave Sullivan, was altogether an involuntary act, and one which occurred in less time than we have taken to write any one of the lines in which it is described.

Mave, who perceived at once that the words of Sarah were burdened by some peculiar distress, could not prevent her admiration from turning into pity without exactly knowing why; but in consequence of what Sarah had just said, she feared to express it either by word or look, lest she might occasion her unnecessary pain.  She consequently, after a slight pause, replied to her lover—­

“You must not blame me, dear Con, for being here.  I came to give whatever poor attendance I could to Nancy here, and to sich of you as want it, while you’re sick.  I came, indeed, to stay and nurse you all, if you will let me; an’ you won’t be sorry to hear it, in spite of all that has happened, that I have the consent of my father an’ mother for so doin’.”