“If he’s innocent,” said her father, “you have more pinetration than any girl in Europe; but if he’s guilty of such an act against any one connected with you, Una, the guilt of all the divils in hell is no match for his.  Well, you have heard all we wanted to say to you, and you needn’t stay.”

“As she herself says,” observed John, “perhaps time will place everything in its true light.  At present all those who are not in love with him have little doubt of his guilt.  However, even as it is, in principle Una is right; putting love out of the question, we should prejudge no one.”

“Time will,” said his sister, “or rather God will in His own good time.  On God I’m sure he depends; on his providence I also rely for seeing his name and character cleared of all that has been brought against him.  John, I wish to speak to you in my own room; not that I intend to make any secret of it, but I want to consult with you first.”

“Cheerna dheelish,” exclaimed her mother; “what a wife that child would make to any man that desarved her!”

“It’s more than I’m able to do, to be angry with her,” returned the Bodagh.  “Did you ever know her to tell a lie, Bridget?”

“A lie! no, nor the shadow of a lie never came out of her lips; the desate’s not in her; an’ may God look down on her wid compunction this day; for there’s a dark road I doubt before her!”

“Amen,” responded her father; “amen, I pray the Saviour.  At all evints, O’Donovan’s guilt or innocence will soon be known,” he added; “the ’sizes begin this day week, so that the business will soon be settled either one way or other.”

Una, on reaching her own room, thus addressed her affectionate brother: 

“Now, John, you know that my grandfather left rue two hundred guineas in his will, and you know, too, the impossibility of getting any money from the clutches of Pardorougha.  You must see Connor, and find out how he intends to defend himself.  If his father won’t allow him sufficient means to employ the best lawyers—­as I doubt whether he will or not—­just tell him the truth, that whilst I have a penny of these two hundred guineas, he mustn’t want money; an’ tell him, too, that all the world won’t persuade me that he’s guilty; say I know him to be innocent, and that his disgrace has made him dearer to me than he ever was before.”

“Surely, you can’t suppose for a moment, my dear Una, that I, your brother, who, by the way, have never opened my lips to him, could deliberately convey such a message.”

“It must be conveyed in some manner; I’m resolved on that.”

“The best plan,” said the other, “is to find out whatsoever attorney they employ, and then to discover, if possible, whether his father has furnished sufficient funds for his defence.  If he has, your offer is unnecessary; and if not, a private arrangement may be made with the attorney of which nobody else need know anything.”