feared that his courage would fail him, or that his
very health would break down. He also felt for his heroic little sister,
Dora, who, although too resolute to complain or urge her own sufferings,
did not endure the less on that account.

"My dear Dora," said he, after their grandfather had been laid out, "I
know what you are suffering, but what can I do? This split between
the Cavanaghs and us has put it out of my power to serve you as I had
intended. It was my wish to see you and James Cavanagh married; but God
knows I pity you from my heart; for, my dear Dora, there's no use in
denyin' it, I understand too well what you feel."

"Don't fret for me, Bryan," she replied; "I'm willin' to bear my share
of the affliction that has come upon the family, rather than do anything
mane or unworthy. I know it goes hard with me to give up James and
lave him for ever; but then I see that it must be done, and that I must
submit to it. May God strengthen and enable me! and that's my earnest
prayer. I also often prayed that you an' Kathleen might be reconciled;
but I wasn't heard, it seems. I sometimes think that you ought to go to
her; but then on second thoughts I can hardly advise you to do so."

"No, Dora, I never will, dear; she ought to have heard me as you said
face to face; instead o' that she condemned me without a hearin'. An'
yet, Dora," he added, "little she knows--little she drames, what I'm
sufferin on her account, and how I love her--more now than ever, I
think; she's so changed, they say, that you could scarcely know her." As
he spoke, a single tear fell upon Dora's hand which he held in his.

"Come. Bryan," she said, assuming a cheerfulness which she did not feel,
"don't have it to say that little Dora, who ought and does look up to
you for support, must begin to support you herself; to-morrow's the
last day--who knows but she may relent yet?" Bryan smiled faintly, then
patted her head, and said, "darling little Dora, the wealth of nations
couldn't purchase you."

"Not to do any thing mane or wrong, at any rate," she replied; after
which she went in to attend to the affairs of the family, for this
conversation took place in the garden.

As evening approached, a deep gloom, the consequence of strong inward
suffering, overspread the features and bearing of Thomas M'Mahon. For
some time past, he had almost given himself over to the influence of
what he experienced--a fact that was observable in many ways, all more