ight be fetched,--she was in
such a state that she was unable to support herself in a chair. Mary
McGovery would not leave her for a moment. The woman meant kindly,
but her presence was only an additional torment. She worried and
tortured Feemy the whole day; she talked to her, intending to comfort
her, till she was so bewildered, that she could not understand a word
that was said; and she kept bringing her food and slops, declaring
that there was nothing like eating for a sore heart,--that if Ussher
was gone, there were still as good fish in the sea as ever were
caught,--and that even if Thady were condemned, the judge couldn't
do more than transport him, which would only be sending him out to a
better country, and "faix the one he'd lave's bad enough for man and
baste."

About seven in the evening Feemy was so weak that she fainted. Mary,
who was in the room at the time, lifted her on the sofa, and when
she found that her mistress did not immediately come to herself, she
began stripping her for the sake of unlacing her stays, and thus
learnt to a certainty poor Feemy's secret.

Mary had a great deal of shrewd common sense of the coarser kind; she
felt that however well inclined she might be to her mistress, she
should not keep to herself the circumstance that she had just learnt;
she knew it was her duty as a woman to make it known to some one, and
she at once determined to go that evening to Mrs. McKeon and tell her
what it was she had discovered.

As soon as Feemy had come to herself, she got her into bed, and
having performed the same friendly office for the old man, she
started off for Drumsna; and having procured a private audience with
Mrs. McKeon, told her what had occurred.

Mrs. McKeon was not at all surprised, though she was greatly grieved.
She merely said,--

"You have done quite right, Mary, to tell me; but don't mention it
yet to any one else; after all this affair is over we'll see what
will be best to do. God help her, poor girl; it were almost better
she should die," and as Mary went down stairs she called her back to
her. "Take my silk cloak with you, Mary. Tell Miss Macdermot I've
sent it, because she'll be so cold to-morrow--and Mary," and here
she whispered some instruction on the stairs, "and mind I shall come
myself for her--but let her be ready, as may be there mayn't be a
minute to spare."

Father John was certainly right when he said that Mrs. McKeon had a
kind heart.

CHAPTE