“You are right,” returned O’Brien.  “No circumstance of any kind”—­and he laid a peculiar emphasis on the words—­“no circumstance of any kind could bring me to visit a man capable of such a mean and cowardly act; for, as to the loss we sustained, I wouldn’t think of it.  You, Connor O’Donovan, are not the man to commit any act, either the one or the other.  If I did not feel this, you would not see me before you.”  He extended his hand to him while he spoke, and the brow of Connor brightened as he met his grasp.

“I believe you,” he replied; “and now I hope we may spake out like men that undherstand one another.  In case you hadn’t come, I intended to lave a message for you with my mother.  I believe you know all Una’s secrets?”

“I do,” replied O’Brien, “just as well as her confessor.”

“Yes, I believe that,” said Connor.  “The sun in heaven is not purer than she is.  The only fault she ever could be charged with was her love for me; and heavily, oh! far too heavily, has she suffered for it!”

“I, for one, never blamed her on that account,” said her brother.  “I knew that her good sense would have at any time prevented her from forming an attachment to an unworthy object; and upon the strength of her own judgment, I approved of that which she avowed for you.  Indeed, I perceived it myself before she told me; but upon attempting to gain her secret, the candid creature at once made me her confidant.”

“It is like her,” said Connor; “she is all truth.  Well would it be for her, if she had never seen me.  Not even the parting from my father and mother sinks my heart with so much sorrow, as the thought that her love for me had made her so unhappy.  It’s a strange case, John O’Brien, an’ a trying one; but since it is the will of God, we must submit to it.  How did you leave her?  I heard she was getting better.”

“She is better,” said John—­“past danger, but still very delicate and feeble.  Indeed, she is so much worn down, that you would scarcely know her.  The brightness of her dark eye is dead—­her complexion gone.  Sorrow, as she says herself, is in her and upon her.  Never, indeed, was a young creature’s love so pure and true.”

O’Donovan made no reply for some time; but the other observed that he turned away his face from him, as if to conceal his emotion.  At length his bosom heaved vehemently, three or four times, and his breath came and went with a quick and quivering motion, that betrayed the powerful struggle which he felt.

“I know it is but natural for you to feel deeply,” continued her brother; “but as you have borne everything heretofore with so much firmness, you must not break down—­”

“But you know it is a deadly thrial to be forever separated from sich a girl.  Sufferin’ so much as you say—­so worn!  Her dark eye dim with—­oh, it is, it is a deadly thrial—­a heart—­breaking thrial!  John O’Brien,” he proceeded, with uncommon earnestness, “you are her only brother, an’ she is your only sister.  Oh, will you, for the sake of God, and for my sake, if I may take the liberty of sayin’ so—­but, above all things, will you, for her own sake, when I am gone, comfort and support her, and raise her heart, if possible, out of this heavy throuble?”