artha?"

"Yea, sister; it was Dalton."

"Did n't you say your name was Da-Da-a-a----"

"No, I didn't!" cried Peter, laughing. "I said Peter Dalton as plain as
a man could speak; and if ever you were in Ireland, you may have heard
the name before now."

"We knew a young lady of that name at Florence."

"Is it Kate,--my daughter Kate?" cried the old man, in ecstasy.

"Yes, she was called Kate," replied Mrs. Ricketts, whose strategic sight
foresaw a world of consequences from the recognition. "What a lovely
creature she was!"

"And you knew Kate?" cried Dalton again, gazing on the group with
intense interest. "But was it my Kate? Perhaps it was n't mine!"

"She was living in the Mazzarini Palace with Lady Hester Onslow."

"That's her,--that's her! Oh, tell me everything you know,--tell me all
you can think of her. She was the light of my eyes for many a year! Is
the old lady sick?" cried he, suddenly; for Mrs. Ricketts had leaned
back in her chair, and covered her face with her handkerchief.

"She 's only overcome," said Martha, as she threw back her own shawl
and prepared for active service; while Scroope, in a burst of generous
anxiety, seized the first decanter near him and filled out a bumper.

"She and yonr da-daughter were like sisters," whispered Scroope to
Dalton.

"The devil they were!" exclaimed Peter, who thought their looks must
have belied the relationship. "Isn't she getting worse?--she's trembling
all over her."

Mrs. Ricketts's state now warranted the most acute sympathy; for she
threw her eyes wildly about, and seemed like one gasping for life.

"Is she here, Martha? Is she near me----can I see her--can I touch
her?" cried she, in accents almost heartrending.

"Yes, yes; you shall see her; she 'll not leave you," said Martha, as if
caressing a child. "We must remove her; we must get her out of this."

"To be sure; yes, of course!" cried Dalton. "There's a room here empty.
It's a tender heart she has, any way;" and, so saying, he arose, and
with the aid of some half-dozen waiters transported the now unconscious
Zoe, chair and all, into a small chamber adjoining the Saal.

"This is her father's hand," murmured Mrs. Ricketts, as she pressed
Dalton's in her own,----"her father's hand."

"Yes, my dear!" said Dalton, returning the pressure, and feeling a
strong desire to blubber, just for sociality's sake.

"If you knew how they loved each other," whispered Martha, while she
busied herself