“The hussy,” replied the father, “it’s the supper she ought to have ready, instead of coortin’ wid sich a larned vag——­Heavens above me!  What ails my child?  Susy!  Susy, alanna dhas! what’s over you?  Oh, I see how it is,” he continued—­“I see how it is!  This accounts for her low spirits an’ bad health for some time past!  Susy, rouse yourself, avourneen!  Sure I’m not angry wid you!  My sowl to glory, Denis Shaughnessy, but you have broke my child’s heart, I doubt!”

“Owen,” said Denis, “your indecorous interruption has stamped you with the signature of genuine ignorance and vulgarity; still, I say, we must have some conversation on that subject immediately.  Yes, I love your daughter a thousand times better than nay own life.”

“Faith, I’ll take care that we’ll have discoorse about it,” replied the father.  “If you have been a villain to the innocent girl—­if you have, Denny, why you’ll meet your God sooner than you think.  Mark my words.  I have but one life, and I’ll lose it for her sake, if she has come to ill.”

“Here,”, said Denis, “let me sprinkle her face with this cool water, that we may recover her, if possible.  Your anger and your outrage, Owen, overcame the timid creature.  Speak kindly to her, she is recovering.  Thank God, she is recovering.”

“Susy, avourneen,” said the father, “rouse yourself,’ ma colleen; rouse yourself, an’ don’t thrimble that way.  The sorra one o’ me’s angry wid you, at all at all.”

“Oh, bring me home,” said the poor girl.  “Father, dear, have no bad opinion of me.  I done nothing, an’ I hope I never will do anything, that would bring the blush of shame to your face.”

“That’s as true as that God’s in heaven,” observed Denis.  “The angels in his presence be not purer than she is.”

“I take her own word for it,” said the father; “a lie, to the best of my knowledge, never came from her lips.”

“Let us assist her home,” said Denis.  “I told you that we must have some serious conversation about her.  I’ll take one arm, and do you take the other.”

“Do so,” said the father, “an’, Denny, as you’re the youngest and the strongest, jist take up that pitcher o’ wather in your hand, an’ carry it to the house above.”

Denis, who was dressed in his best black from top to toe, made a wry face or two at this proposal.  He was able, however, for Susan’s sake, to compromise his dignity:  so looking about him, to be certain that there was no other person observing them, he seized the pitcher in one hand, gave Susan his arm, and in this unheroic manner assisted to conduct her home.

In about half an hour or better after this, Denis and Owen Connor proceeded in close and earnest conversation towards old Shaughnessy’s.  On entering, Denis requested to speak with his father and brothers in private.

“Father,” said he, “this night is pregnant—­that is, vulgariter, in the family way—­with my fate.”