“Nothing can comfort me; my heart is breaking; oh, leave me—­leave me to the sorrow that’s upon, me.”

Deep, indeed, was the distress felt on her account, even by the females of her father’s house, who, that day, shed many bitter tears on witnessing the mute but feverish agony of her sufferings.  As evening approached she became evidently more distracted and depressed; her head, she said, felt hot, and her temples occasionally throbbed with considerable violence.  The alternations of color on her cheek were more frequent than before, and their pallid and carmine hues were more alarmingly contrasted.  Her weeping mother took the stricken one to her bosom, and, after kissing her burning and passive lips, pressed her temples with a hope that this might give her relief.

“Why don’t you cry, anien maehree? (daughter of my heart).  Thry and shed tears; it ’ill take away this burning pain that’s in your poor head; oh, thry and let down the tears, and you’ll see how it ’ill relieve I you.”

“Mother, I can’t,” she replied; “I can shed no tears; I wish they were home, for I the worst couldn’t be worse than this.”

“No, asthore, it couldn’t—­it can’t; husth!  I—­do you hear it?  There they are; that’s the car; ay, indeed, it’s at the gate.”

They both listened for a moment, and the voices of her father and brother were distinctly heard giving some necessary orders! to the servant.

“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Una, pressing her hands upon her heart, “my heart is bursting, and my temples—­my temples—­”

“Chierna yeelish,” said the mother, feeling its strong and rapid palpitations, “you can’t stand this.  Oh, darling of my heart, for the sake of your own life, and of the living God, be firm!”

At this moment their knock at the hall-door occasioned her to leap with a sudden start, almost out of her mother’s arms.  But, all at once, the tumult of that heart ceased, and the vermillion of her cheek changed to the hue of death.  With a composure probably more the result of weakness than fortitude, she clasped her hands, and giving a fixed gaze towards the parlor-door, that spoke the resignation of despair, she awaited the tidings of her lover’s doom.  They both entered, and, after a cautious glance about the room, immediately perceived the situation in which, reclining on her mother’s bosom, she lay, ghastly as a corpse, before them.

“Una, dear,” said John, approaching her, “I am afraid you are ill.”

She riveted her eyes upon him, as if she would read his soul, but she could not utter a syllable.

The young man’s countenance became overshadowed by a deep and mournful sense of the task he found himself compelled to perform; his voice faltered, and his lips trembled, as—­, in a low tone of heartfelt and profound sympathy, he exclaimed: 

“Una, dear, you had better go to bed, and let my mother stay with you.”  Calmly she heard him, and, rising, she slowly but deliberately left the room, and proceeded up stairs with a degree of steadiness which surprised her mother.  The only words she uttered on hearing this blighting communication, were, “Come with me, mother.”