“Then, for heaven’s sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor at once be sent for.”

“If I don’t get easier soon, I will,” replied her mother, “I do not much like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness.”

At this moment a tap at the door announced a visitor, and almost immediately Harman entered the parlor.  It is scarcely necessary to say, that Mary was quite unprepared for his appearance, as indeed was her mother.  The latter sat up on the sofa, but spoke not, for she scarcely knew in what terms to address him.  Mary, though much moved previous to his entrance, now assumed the appearance of a coldness, which in her heart she did not feel.  That her lover, who ought to have known her so well, should have permitted himself to be borne away by such an ungenerous suspicion of her fidelity, was a reflection which caused her many a bitter pang.  On the other hand, when she looked back upon the snare into which she had been drawn, it was impossible not to admit that the force of appearances made a strong case against her.  For this reason, therefore, she scarcely blamed Harman, whilst, at the same time, she certainly felt that there was something due to her previous character, and the maidenly delicacy of her whole life.

“You are surprised, Mary, to see me here,” said Harman; “and you, Mrs. M’Loughlin, are no doubt equally so?”

“I think it is very natural we should be, James,” replied Mrs. M’Loughlin.  “I must confess that your visit is an unexpected one certainly, and my anxiety now is, to know the cause to which we may attribute it.  Sit down.”

He did not sit, however, but exclaimed—­“Good heavens, what is this?  Why, Mary, I should scarcely have known you.  This change is dreadful.”

Neither of the females spoke; but the daughter bestowed on him a single look—­long, fixed, and sorrowful—­which did more to reprove and soften him, than any language could have done.  It went to his heart—­it filled him with grief, repentance, remorse.  For many a day and night afterwards, her image, and that look, were before him, exerting a power over his soul, which kindled his love to a height it would never otherwise have reached.  He approached her.

“What reparation do I not owe you, my beloved Mary, for my base and ungenerous belief in that scoundrel’s vile calumny?  Such reparation, however, as I can make, I will.  You are not aware that Poll Doolin has confessed and disclosed the whole infamous plot; and in a few days the calumny will be extinct.  As for me, you know not what a heavy weight pressed my heart down to the uttermost depths of suffering.  I have not been without other calamities—­yet this, I take heaven to witness, was the only one I felt.”

There was a tone of deep feeling and earnest sincerity in his words, which could not for a moment be mistaken.  His face, too, was pale, and full of care, and his person much thinner than it had been.