The unfortunate youth felt, after Cassidy’s departure, the full force of that dark and fearful presentiment which arises from the approach of the mightiest calamity that can befall an innocent man—­a public and ignominious death, while in the very pride of youth, strength, and those natural hopes of happiness which existence had otherwise promised.  In him this awful apprehension proceeded neither from the terror of judgment nor of hell, but from that dread of being withdrawn from life, and of passing down from the light, the enjoyments and busy intercourse of a breathing and conscious world, into the silence and corruption of the unknown grave.  When this ghastly picture was brought near him by the force of his imagination, he felt for a moment as if his heart had died away in him, and his blood became congealed into ice.  Should this continue, he knew that human nature could not sustain it long, and he had already resolved to bear his fate with firmness, whatever that fate might be.  He then reflected that he was innocent, and, remembering the practice of his simple and less political forefathers, he knelt down and fervently besought the protection of that, Being in whose hands are the issues of life and death.

On rising from this act of heartfelt devotion, he experienced that support which he required so much.  The fear of death ceased to alarm him, and his natural fortitude returned with more than its usual power to his support.  In this state of mind he was pacing his narrow room, when the door opened, and his father, with a tottering step, entered and approached him.  The son was startled, if not terrified, at the change which so short a time had wrought in the old man’s appearance.

“Good God, father dear!” he exclaimed, as the latter threw his arms with a tight and clinging grasp about him; “good heavens! what has happened to change you so much for the worse?  Why, if you fret this way about me, you’ll soon break your heart.  Why will you fret, father, when you know I am innocent?  Surely, at the worst, it is better to die innocent than to live guilty.”

“Connor,” said the old man, still clinging tenaciously to him, and looking wildly into his face, “Connor, it’s broke—­my heart’s broke at last.  Oh, Connor, won’t you pity me when you hear it—­won’t you, Connor—­oh, when you hear it, Connor, won’t you pity me?  It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone—­he’s off, off—­to that nest of robbers, the Isle of Man, and has robbed me and half the county.  P——­has; I’m a ruined man, a beggar, an’ will die a dog’s death.”

Connor looked down keenly into his father’s face, and began to entertain a surmise so terrible that the beatings of his heart were in a moment audible to his own ear.

“Father,” he inquired, “in the name of God what is wrong with you?  What is it you spake of?  Has P——­gone off with your money?  Sit down, and don’t look so terrified.”