at 'ud give a great deal to see you both beside one
another."

"Indeed, an' she has it then," said Mave, "far an' away, in face, in
figure, an' in everything."

"I don't think so," he replied; "but at any rate not in everything--not
in the heart, dear Mave--not in the heart."

"They say she's kind hearted, then," replied Mave.

"They do," said Con, "an' I don't know how it comes; but somehow every
one loves her, and every one fears her at the same time. She asked me
yestherday if I thought my father murdhered Sullivan."

"Oh! for God's sake, don't talk about it," said Mave, again getting
pale; "I can't bear to hear it spoken of."

The Grey Stone--on a low ledge of which, nearly concealed from public
view, our lovers had been sitting--was, in point of size, a very large
rock of irregular size. After the last words, alluding to the murder,
had been uttered, an old man, very neatly but plainly dressed, and
bearing a pedlar's pack, came round from behind a projection of it, and
approached them. From his position, it was all but certain that he must
have overheard their whole conversation. Mave, on seeing him, blushed
deeply, and Dalton himself felt considerably embarrassed at the idea
that the stranger had been listening, and become acquainted with
circumstances that were never designed for any other ears but their own.

The old man, on making his appearance, surveyed our lovers from head to
foot with a curious and inquisitive eye--a circumstance which, taken
in connection with his eaves-dropping, was not at all relished by young
Dalton.

"I think you will know us again," said he in no friendly voice. "How
long have you been sittin' behind the corner there?" he inquired.

"I hope I may know yez agin," replied the pedlar, for he was one; "I was
jist long enough behind the corner to hear some of what you were spakin'
about last."

"An' what was that?" said Dalton, putting him to the test.

"You were talkin' about the murdher of one Sullivan."

"We were," replied Dalton; "but I'll thank you to say nothing further
about it; it's disagreeable to both of us--distressin' to both of us."

"I don't understand that," said the old pedlar; "how can it be so to
either of you, if you're not consarned in it one way or other?"

"We are, then," said Dalton, with warmth; "the man that was killed was
this girl's uncle, and the man that was supposed to take his life is my
father. Maybe you understand me now?"

The blood left