“Now,” said the woman, “I must go; but before I go, I wish to look on the face of Condy Dalton.”

“There’s a bit of rush on the shelf there,” said Mrs. Dalton to one of her daughters; “bring it over and light it.”

The girl did so, and the strange woman, taking the little taper in her hand, approached Dalton, and looking with a gaze almost fearfully solemn and searching into his face.

“You are Condy Dalton?” she asked.

“I am,” said he.

“Answer me now,” she proceeded, “as if you were in the presence of God at judgment, are you happy?”

Mrs. Dalton, who felt anxious for many reasons, to relieve her unfortunate husband from this unexpected and extraordinary catechist, hastened to reply for him.

“How, honest woman, could a man be happy who is in a state of such destitution, or who has had such misfortunes as he has had;” and as she spoke her eyes filled with tears of compassion for her husband.

“Don’t break it upon me,” said the woman, solemnly, “but let me ax my question, an’ let him give his answer.  In God’s name and presence, are you a happy man?”

“I can’t speak a lie to that, for I must yet meet my judge—­I am not.”

“You have one particular thought that makes you unhappy.”

“I have one particular thought that makes me unhappy.”

“How long has it made you unhappy?”

“For near two-and-twenty years.”

“That’s enough,” she replied; “God’s hand is in it all—­I must now go.  I have done what I was axed to do; but there’s a higher will at work.  Honest woman,” she added, addressing Mrs. Dalton, “I wish you and your childre good night!”

The moment she went they almost ceased to think of her.  The pot still hung on the fire, and little time was lost in preparing a meal of food.

From the moment Gra Gal Sullivan’s name was mentioned, the whole family observed that young Con started and appeared to become all at once deeply agitated; he walked backwards and forwards—­sat down—­and rose up—­applied his hands to his forehead—­appeared sometimes flushed, and again pale—­and altogether seemed in a state which it was difficult to understand.

“What is the matter with you, Con?” asked his mother, “you seem dreadfully uneasy.”

“I am ill, mother,” he replied—­“the fever that was near taking Tom away, is upon me; I feel that I have it by the pains that’s in my head and the small o’ my back.”

“Lie down a little, dear,” she added, “its only the pain, poor boy, of an empty stomach—­lie down on your poor bed, God help you, and when the supper’s ready you’ll be better.”

“It’s her,” he replied—­“it’s her—­I know it”—­and as he uttered the words, touched by her generosity, and the consciousness of his own poverty, he wept bitterly, and then repaired to his miserable bed, where he stretched himself in pain and sorrow.

“Now, Con,” said his wife, in a tone of consolation and encouragement, “will you ever despair of God’s mercy, or doubt his goodness, after what has happened?”