ught--nothing but
the melancholy inquiry from those beautiful lips of--"Where's William
Reilly? They have taken me from him--and will not allow me to see him.
Oh, bring me to William Reilly!"

"Oh, wretched fate!" exclaimed her distracted father, "I am--I am a
murderer, and faithful Connor was right--Mrs. Brown--Mrs. Hastings--hear
me, both--I was warned of this, but I would not listen either to reason
or remonstrance, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted. Great
heaven, what a fate both for her and me--for her the innocent, and for
me the guilty!"

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the father's misery and distraction;
but, from all our readers have learned of his extraordinary tenderness
and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what
he suffered. He immediately ordered his carriage, and had barely time to
hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation for seven years.
His daughter was quite meek and tractable; she spoke not, nor could any
ingenuity on their part extract the slightest reply from her. Neither
did she shed a single tear, but the vacant light of her eyes had
stamped a fatuitous expression on her features that was melancholy and
heartbreaking beyond all power of language to describe.

No other person had seen her since the bereavement of her reason, except
the officer who kept guard on the lobby, and who, in the hurry and
distraction of the moment, had been dispatched by Mrs. Brown for a glass
of cold water. Her father's ravings, however, in the man's presence,
added to his own observation, and the distress of her female friends
were quite sufficient to satisfy him of the nature of her complaint, and
in less than half an hour it was through the whole court-house, and
the town besides, that the _Cooleen Bawn_ had gone mad on hearing the
sentence that was passed upon her lover. Her two friends accompanied her
home, and remained with her for the night.

Such was the melancholy conclusion of the trial of Willy Reilly; but
even taking it at its worst, it involved a very different fate from
that of his vindictive rival, Whitecraft. It appeared that that worthy
gentleman and the Red Rapparee had been sentenced to die on the same
day, and at the same hour. It is true, Whitecraft was aware that a
deputation had gone post-haste to Dublin Castle to solicit his pardon,
or at least some lenient commutation of punishment. Still, it was feared
that, owing to the dreadful state of the