“He has, Connor—­robbed me an’ half the county—­he disappeared the evenin’ of the very day I left my last lodgment wid him; he’s in that nest of robbers, the Isle of Man, an’ I’m ruined—­ruined!  Oh God!  Connor, how can I stand it? all my earnin’s an’ my savin’s an’ the fruits of my industry in his pocket, an’ upon his back, an’ upon his bones!  My brain is reelin’—­I dunna what I’m doin’, nor what I’ll do.  To what hand now can I turn myself?  Who’ll assist me!  I dunna what I’m doin’, nor scarcely what I’m sayin’.  My head’s all in confusion.  Gone! gone! gone!  Oh see the luck that has come down upon me!  Above all men, why was I singled out to be made a world’s wondher of—­why was I?  What did I do?  I robbed no one; yet it’s gone—­an’ see the death that’s afore me! oh God! oh God!”

“Well, father, let it go—­you have still your health; you have still my poor mother to console you; and I hope you’ll soon have myself, too; between us well keep you comfortable, and, if you’ll allow us to take our own way, more so than ever you did—­”

Pardorougha started, as if struck by some faint but sudden recollection.  All at once he looked with amazement around the room, and afterwards with a pause of inquiry, at his son.  At length, a light of some forgotten memory appeared to flash at once across his brain; his countenance changed from the wild and unsettled expression which it bore, to one more stamped with the earnest humanity of our better nature.

“Oh, Connor!” he at last exclaimed, putting his two hands into those of his son:  “can you pity me, an’ forgive me?  You see, my poor boy, how I’m sufferin’, an’ you see that I can’t—­I won’t—­be able to bear up against this long.”

The tears here ran down his worn and hollow cheeks.

“Oh,” he proceeded, “how could I forget you, my darlin’ boy?  But I hardly think my head’s right.  If I had you with me, an’ before my eyes, you’d keep my heart right, an’ give me strength, which I stand sorely in need of.  Saints in glory! how could I forget you, acushla, an’ what now can I do for you?  Not a penny have I to pay lawyer, or attorney, or any one, to defind you at your trial, and it so near!”

“Why, haven’t you settled all that with Mr. Cassidy, the attorney?”

“Not a bit, achora machree, not a bit; I was wid him this day, an’ had agreed, but whin I wint to give him an ordher on P——­, he—­oh saints above! he whistled at me an’ it—­an’ tould me that P——­was gone to that nest o’ robbers, the Isle of Man.”

“Connor,” said he, feebly, “I am unwell—­unwell—­come and sit down by me.”

“You are too much distressed every way, father,” said his son, taking his place upon his iron bedstead beside him.

“I am,” said Fardorougha, calmly; “I am too much distressed—­sit nearer me, Connor.  I wish your mother was here, but she wasn’t able to come, she’s unwell too; a good mother she was, Connor, and a good wife.”