as this poor fellow is, it would be
well for most of us. I promised to see him early this morning. Will
you let me go up to him now? though God knows I know not what to say
to him!"

"Yes, of course. You shall go up now immediately; and God grant you
may be able to comfort him! But you know you cannot see him as you
have done always. That is, you may see him as often as you please,
but you cannot see him alone."

"Not alone!" said Father John.

"Not now," said the governor. "When brought back capitally condemned,
he was of necessity put into the condemned cell; and when once there,
no visitor may be left alone with him."

"How is he to receive--how am I to perform the sacred duties of my
profession?"

"When the prisoner is about to confess, the turnkey will step outside
the door, which you can close. You know, Father John," continued the
governor, "it is not from my own heart I give these orders; you know
I would give him every indulgence I could; but you also know that I
must obey the rules of my office, and they imperatively forbid that
any visitor shall be left alone with a condemned prisoner."

"I know it isn't your fault; and if it must be so, it must. But will
you desire the man to be sent for, for Macdermot will be expecting
me?"

In a minute or two the gaoler arrived with his huge keys, and, with a
palpitating heart, Father John followed him to the condemned cell.

The priest, during his walk from Drumsna, had made up his mind
exactly as to what he would say on seeing Thady; how he would mix
pity with condolence; how he would use such words as might strengthen
him in his determination to bear his sufferings with resignation; how
he would teach him to forget the present in the thoughts of his
future prospects. But when the iron door was opened, and he saw
Macdermot seated on the one small stone seat in the wall beneath the
high, iron-barred window; when his eye rested on the young man's pale
and worn face, he forgot all his studied phrases and premeditated
conduct, his acute grief overcame his ideas of duty, and falling on
the prisoner's bosom, he sobbed out, "My boy--my boy--my poor
murdered boy!"

It would be useless to attempt to describe at length the scene
between them. Father John remained with him nearly the whole of that
day,--the patient, silent turnkey leaning up against the corner of
the cell during the whole time. For a long time Thady was the most
tranquil of the two; but at length the p