“An’ what was that?” said Dalton, putting him to the test.

“You were talkin’ about the murdher of one Sullivan.”

“We were,” replied Dalton; “but I’ll thank you to say nothing further about it; it’s disagreeable to both of us—­distressin’ to both of us.”

“I don’t understand that,” said the old pedlar; “how can it be so to either of you, if you’re not consarned in it one way or other?”

“We are, then,” said Dalton, with warmth; “the man that was killed was this girl’s uncle, and the man that was supposed to take his life is my father.  Maybe you understand me now?”

The blood left the cheeks of the old man, who staggered over to the ledge whereon they sat, and placed himself beside them.

“God of Heaven!” said he, with astonishment, “can this be thrue?”

“Now that you know what you do know,” said Dalton, “we’ll thank you to drop the subject.”

“Well, I will,” said he; “but first, for Heaven’s sake, answer me a question or two.  What’s your name, avick?”

“Condy Dalton.”

“Ay, Condy Dalton!—­the Lord be about us!  An’ Sullivan—­Sullivan was the name of the man that was murdhered, you say?”

“Yes, Bartley Sullivan—­God rest him!”

“An’ whisper—­tell me—­God presarve us!—­was there anything done to your father, avick?  What was done to him?”

“Why, he was taken up on suspicion soon afther it happened; but—­but—­there was nothing done:  they had no proof against him, an’ he was let go again.”

“Is your father alive still?”

“He is livin’,” replied Dalton; “but come—­pass on, ould man,” he added, bitterly; “I’ll give you no more information.”

“Well, thank you, dear,” said the pedlar; “I ax your pardon for givin’ you pain—­an’ the colleen here—­ay, you’re a Sullivan, then—­an’ a purty but sorrowful lookin’ crature your are, God knows.  Poor things!  God pity you both an’ grant you a betther fate than what appears to be before you! for I did hear a thrifle of your discoorse.”

There was something singularly benevolent and kind in the old pedlar’s voice, as he uttered the last words, and he had not gone many perches from the stone, when Dalton’s heart relented as he reflected on his harsh and unfriendly demeanor towards him.

“That is a good ould man,” he observed, “and I am now sorry that I spoke to him so roughly—­there was kindness in his voice and in his eye as he looked upon us.”

“There was,” replied Mave, “and I think him a good ould man too.  I don’t think he would harm any one.”

“Dear Mave,” said Dalton, “I must now get home as soon as I can; I don’t feel so well as I was—­there is a chill upon me, and I’m afeared I won’t have a comfortable night.”

“And I can do nothing for you!” added Mave, her eyes filling with tears.

“I didn’t thank you for that lock of hair you sent me by Donnel Dhu,” he added.  “It is here upon my heart, and I needn’t say that if anything had happened me, or if anything should happen me, it an’ that heart must go to dust together.”