“No, father, not to tell you what I have said, but, father, dear, what I am goin’ to say; only first answer me.  If he did murdher Sullivan, was it in his own defence? was it a cool murdher? a cowardly murdher? because if it was, Condy Dalton is a bad man.  But still listen:  it’s now near two-an’-twenty years since the deed was done.  I know little about religion, father; you know that; but still I have heard that God is willin’ to forgive all men their sins if they repent of them; if they’re sorry for them.  Now, father, it’s well known that for many a long year Condy Dalton has been in great sorrow of heart for something or other; can man do more?”

“Go home out o’ this, I say; take yourself away.”

“Oh, who can tell, father, the inward agony and bitther repentance that that sorrowful man’s heart, maybe, has suffered.  Who can tell the tears he shed, the groans he groaned, the prayers for mercy he said, maybe, and the worlds he would give to have that man that he killed—­only by a hasty blow, maybe—­again alive and well!  Father, don’t prosecute him; leave the poor heartbroken ould man to God!  Don’t you see that God has already taken him an’ his into His hands; hasn’t He punished them a hundred ways for years?  Haven’t they been brought down, step by step, from wealth an’ respectability, till they’re now like poor beggars, in the very dust?  Oh, think, father, dear father, think of his white hairs; think of his pious wife, that every one respects; think of his good-hearted, kind daughters; think of their poverty, and all they have suffered so long; an’ above all, oh, think, father dear, of what they will suffer if you are the manes of takin’ that sorrowful white-haired ould man out from the middle of his poor, but lovin’ and dacent and respected family, and hangin’ him for an act that he has repented for, maybe, and that we ought to hope the Almighty himself has forgiven him for.  Father, I go on my knees to you to beg that you won’t prosecute this ould man; but leave him to God!”

As she uttered the last few sentences, the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks; but when she knelt—­which she did—­her tears ceased to flow, and she looked up into her father’s face with eyes kindled into an intense expression, and her hands clasped as if her own life and everlasting salvation depended upon his reply.

“Go home, I desire you,” he replied, with a cold sneer, for he had now collected himself, and fell back into his habitual snarl; “Go home, I desire you, or maybe you’d wish to throw yourself in the way of that young profligate that I was spakin’ to when you came up.  Who knows, affcher all, but that’s your real design, and neither pity nor compassion for ould Dalton.”

“Am I his daughter?” she replied, whilst she started to her feet, and her dark eyes flashed with disdain:  “Can I be his daughter?”

“I hope you don’t mean to cast a slur upon your—.”  He paused a moment and started as if a serpent had bitten him; but left the word “mother” unuttered.