Again she softened, and her eyes filled with tears.  “Father, I never had a mother!” she said.

“No,” he replied; “or if you had, her name will never come through my lips.”

She looked at him with wonder for a few moments, after which she turned, and with a face of melancholy and sorrow, proceeded with slow and meditating steps in the direction of their humble cabin.

Her father, who felt considerably startled by some portions of her appeal, though by no means softened, again directed his steps towards the garden gate, where he left young Dick standing.  Here he found this worthy young gentleman awaiting his return, and evidently amazed at the interview between him and his daughter; for although he had been at too great a distance to hear their conversation, he could, and did see, by the daughter’s attitudes, that the subject of their conversation was extraordinary, and consequently important.

On approaching him, the Prophet now, with his usual coolness, pulled out the tress which he had, in some manner, got from Gra Gal Sullivan, and holding it for a time, placed it in Dick’s hands.

“There’s one proof,” said he, alluding to a previous part of their conversation, “that I wasn’t unsuccessful, and, indeed, I seldom am, when I set about a thing in earnest.”

“But is it possible,” asked the other, “that she actually gave this lovely tress willingly—­you swear that?”

“As Heaven’s above me,” replied the Prophet, “there never was a ringlet sent by woman to man with more love than she sent that.  Why, the purty creature actually shed tears, and begged of me to lose no time in givin’ it.  You have it now, at all events—­an’ only for young Dalton’s outrage, you’d have had it before now.”

“Then there’s no truth in the report that she’s fond of him?”

“Why—­ahem—­n—­no—­oh, no—­not now—­fond of him she was, no doubt; an’ you know it’s never hard to light a half-burned turf, or a candle that was lit before.  If they could be got out of the counthry, at all events—­these Daltons—­it would be so much out of your way, for between, you an’ me, I can tell you that your life won’t be safe when he comes to know that you have put his nose out of joint with the Gra Gal.”

“It is strange, however, that she should change so soon!”

“Ah, Master Richard! how little you know of woman, when you say so.  They’re a vain, uncertain, selfish crew—­women are—­there’s no honesty in them, nor I don’t think there’s a woman alive that could be trusted, if you only give her temptation and opportunity; none of them will stand that.”

“But how do you account for the change in her case, I ask?”

“I’ll tell you that.  First and foremost, you’re handsome—­remarkably handsome.”

“Come, come, no nonsense, Donnel; get along, will you, ha! ha! ha!—­handsome indeed!  Never you mind what the world says—­well!”

“Why,” replied the other, gravely, “there’s no use in denyin’ it, you know; it’s a matther that tells for itself, an’ that a poor girl with eyes in her head can judge of as a rich one—­at any rate, if you’re not handsome, you’re greatly belied; an’ every one knows that there’s never smoke without fire.”