“Mr. Reilly is ready, miss,” she said, “and is waiting for you behind the garden; the only one I dread in the house is Andy Cummiskey; he is so much attached to the master that I think if he knew you were about to escape he would tell him.”

“Well, Connor, we must only avoid him as well as we can; but where, or how, shall I carry these jewels? in these slight pockets of yours, Connor, they could not be safe.”

“Well, then, can’t you give them to him to keep, and they’ll be safe?”

“True, Connor, so they will; but I give him a heart which he prizes above them all.  But, alas! my father! oh!  Connor, shall I abandon him?”

“Do not distress yourself, my dear Miss Folliard; your father loves you too much to hold out his anger against you long.  Did you not tell me that if Reilly was a Protestant your father said he would rather marry you to him than to Sir Robert, the villain, with all his wealth?”

“I did, Connor, and my father certainly said so; but the serpent, Connor, entwined himself about the poor credulous man, and succeeded in embittering him against Reilly, who would rather go to the scaffold—­yes, and—­which he would consider a greater sacrifice—­rather abandon even me than his religion.  And do you think, Connor, that I do not love my noble-minded Reilly the more deeply for this?  I tell you, Connor, that if he renounced his religion upon no other principle than his love for me, I should despise him as a dishonorable, man, to whom it would not be safe for me to entrust my happiness.”

“Well, well; but now it is time to start, and Reilly, as I said, is waiting for you behind the garden.”

“Oh, Connor, and is it come to this? my dear papa! but I cannot go until I see him; no, Connor, I could not; I shall go quietly into his room, and take one look at him; probably it may be the last.  Oh, my God! what am I about to do!  Connor, keep this casket until I return; I shall not be long.”

She then went to his chamber.  The blinds and curtains of the windows had not been drawn, and it occurred to her that as her dress was so different from any which her father had ever seen on her, some suspicion might be created should he observe it.  She therefore left the candlestick which she had brought with her on the inside sill of a lobby window, having observed at the door that the moonlight streamed in through the windows upon his bed.  Judge of her consternation, however, when, on entering the room, her father, turning himself in the bed, asked: 

“Is that Helen?”

“It is, papa; I thought you had been asleep, and I came up to steal my good-night kiss without any intention of awakening you.”

“I drank too much, Helen, with Whitecraft, whom wine—­my Burgundy—­instead of warming, seems to turn into an icicle.  However, he is a devilish shrewd fellow.  Helen, darling, there’s a jug of water on the table there; will you hand it to me; I’m all in a flame and a fever.”