“Since she called first,” said Harman, pursuing the train of melancholy thought, “some vague notion, like the shadow of a dream crossed me; but, alas! it is transgressing the bounds of imagination itself even to suppose that it could be true.  However, if it were, it is in your presence, sir” he said, addressing himself to Easel, “that I should wish to have it detailed; and, perhaps, after all, this slight, but latent reflection of hope, influenced me in desiring her to come here.  Gentlemen, excuse me,” said he, covering his face with his hands, “I am very wretched and unhappy—­I cannot account for what has occurred; it looks like an impossibility, but it is true.  Oh, if he were a man!—­but, no, no, you all know how contemptible—­what a dastardly scoundrel he is!”

“Harman, my dear fellow,” said Hickman, “we understand you, we respect your feelings, and we sympathize with you—­but, in the meantime, do see and hear this woman.”

He had scarcely uttered the words when the servant entered, stating that she was at the door.

“Let her come in,” said Harman; “let the vile wretch come in.”

“And, do you, John, withdraw,” said Hickman.

Poll Doolin entered.

Her appearance threw Harman into a violent state of agitation; he trembled, got pale, and seemed absolutely sickened by the presence of the wicked wretch who had been the vile instrument of Phil M’Clutchy’s success, of Mary M’Loughlin’s dishonor, and of his own unhappiness.  It was the paleness, however, of indignation, of distress, of misery, of despair.  His blood, despite the paleness of his face, absolutely boiled in his veins, and that the more hotly, because he had no object on which he could wreak his vengeance.  Poll, who was always cool, and not without considerable powers of observation, at once noticed the tumult of his feelings, and, as if replying to them, said—­

“I don’t blame you, Mr. Harman, thinkin’ as you do; the sight of me is not pleasant to you—­and, indeed, you don’t hate me more than you ought.”

“What is your business with me?” said Harman.

Poll looked around her for a moment, and replied—­

“I’m glad of it, the more the better; Francis Harman,” she proceeded, “sit down, and listen to me; yes, listen to me—­for I have it in my power to make you a happy man.”

“Great God! could my dream be true?” said Harman, placing himself in the chair.

“Listen to me,” she continued.

“I listen; be brief—­for I am in no humor for either falsehood or imposture.”

“I never bore you ill-will,” she said, “and yet I have—­and may God forgive me for it I—­scalded the very heart within you.”

Harman again covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“Will it relieve your heart to know that Mary M’Loughlin’s an innocent and a slandered girl?”

“Prove that,” said Harman, starting to his feet, “oh, prove that, Poll, and never whilst I have life shall you want a—­but, alas!” he exclaimed, “I am a beggar, and can promise you nothing.”