“Have you seen the agint since you gave him the petition?” asked Hanlon.

“I did, but he had no discoorse with the Hendherson’s; and he bid me call on him again.”

“I dunna what does he intend to do?”

“Hut, nothing.  What ’id he do?  I’ll go bail, he’ll never trouble his head about it more; at any rate I tould him a thing.”

“Very likely he won’t,” replied Hanlon; “but what I’m thinkin’ of now, is the poor Daltons.  May God in his mercy pity an’ support them this night!”

The pedlar clasped his hands tightly as he looked up, and said “Amen!”

“Ay,” said he, “it’s now, Charley, whin I think of them, that I get frightened about our disappointment, and the way that everything has failed with us.  God pity them, I say, too!”

The situation of this much tried family, was, indeed, on the night in question, pitiable in the extreme.  It is true, they had now recovered, or nearly so, the full enjoyment of their health, and were—­owing, as we have already said, to the bounty of some unknown friend—­in circumstances of considerable comfort.  Dalton’s confession of the murder had taken away from them every principle upon which they could rely, with one only exception.  Until the moment of that confession, they had never absolutely been in possession of the secret cause of his remorse—­although, it must be admitted, that, on some occasions, the strength of his language and the melancholy depth of his sorrow, filled them with something like suspicion.  Still such they knew to be the natural affection and tenderness of his heart, his benevolence and generosity, in spite of his occasional bursts of passion, that they could not reconcile to themselves the notion that he had ever murdered a fellow creature.  Every one knows how slow the heart of wife or child is to entertain such a terrible suspicion against a husband or a parent, and that the discovery of their guilt comes upon the spirit with a weight of distress and agony that is great in proportion to the confidence felt in them.

The affectionate family in question had just concluded their simple act of evening worship, and were seated around a dull fire, looking forward in deep dejection to the awful event of the following day.  The silence that prevailed was only broken by an occasional sob from the girls, or a deep sigh from young Con, who, with his mother, had not long been returned from Ballynafail, where they had gone to make preparations for the old man’s defence.  His chair stood by the fire, in its usual place, and as they looked upon it from time to time, they could not prevent their grief from bursting out afresh.  The mother, on this occasion, found the usual grounds for comfort taken away from both herself and them—­we mean, the husband’s innocence.  She consequently had but one principle to rely on—­that of single dependence upon God, and obedience to His sovereign will, however bitter the task might be, and so she told them.