of her distress.  Neither was this all the gentle and generous girl had to suffer.  She experienced, in her own person, as well as Mrs. Dalton did, the painful sense of degradation which necessity occasions, by a violation of that hereditary spirit of decent pride and independence which the people consider as the prestige of high respect, and which, even while it excites compassion and sympathy, is looked upon, to a certain extent, as diminished by even a temporary visitation of poverty.  When the meal-man, therefore, addressed her, she unconsciously threw the hood of her cloak back, and disclosed to the spectators a face burning with blushes and eyes filled with tears.  The tears, however, were for the distress of Mrs. Dalton and her family, and the blushes for the painful circumstances which compelled her at once to witness them, and to expose those which were left under her own careworn father’s roof.  Mrs. Dalton, however, on looking round and perceiving what seemed to be an ebullition merely of natural shame, went over to her with a calm but mournful manner that amounted almost to dignity.

“Dear Mave,” she said, “there is nothing here to be ashamed of.  God forbid that the struggle of an honest family with poverty should bring a blot upon either your good name or mine.  It does not, nor it will not:  so dry your tears, my darlin’ girl; there are better times before us all, I trust.  Darby Skinadre,” she added, turning to the miser, “you are both hard-hearted and ungrateful, or you would remember, in our distress, the kindness we showed you in yours.  If you can cleanse your conscience from the stain of ingratitude, it must be by a change of life.”

“Whatever stain there may be on my ungrateful conscience,” he replied, turning up his red eyes, as it were with thanksgiving, “there’s not the stain of blood and murdher on it—­that’s one comfort.”

Mrs. Dalton did not seem to hear him, neither did she seem to look in the direction of where he stood.  As the words were uttered she had been in the act of extending her hand to Mave Sullivan, who had hers stretched out to receive it.  There now occurred, however, a mutual pause.  Her hand was withdrawn, as was that of Mave also, who had suddenly become pale as death.

“God bless you, my darlin’ girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Dalton, sighing, as if with some hidden sorrow; “God bless you and yours, prays my unhappy heart this day!”

And with these words she was about to depart, when Mave, trembling and much agitated, laid her hand gently and timidly upon her,—­adding, in a low, sweet, tremulous voice,

“My heart is free from that suspicion—­I can’t tell why—­but I don’t believe it.”

And while she spoke, her small hand gradually caught that of Mrs. Dalton, as a proof that she would not withhold the embrace on that account.  Mrs. Dalton returned her pressure, and at the same moment kissed the fair girl’s lips, who sobbed a moment or two in her arms, where she threw herself.  The other again invoked a blessing upon her head, and walked out, having wiped a few tears from her pale cheeks.