"You will," said she, approaching the other--"you will, after your
escape the other day; you--no, ah! no--I won't now; I forgot myself.
Come, father,--come, come; my last quarrel with her is over."

"Ay," returned Nelly, as they went out, "there you go, an' a sweet pair
you are--father and daughter!"

"Now, father," resumed Sarah, after they had got out of hearing, "will
you tell me if you slep' well last night?"

"Why do you ax?" he replied; "to be sure I did."

"I'll tell you why I ax," she answered; "do you know that you went last
night--in the middle of the night--to the murdhered man's grave, in the
glen there?"

It is impossible to express the look of astonishment and dismay which he
turned up on her at these words.

"Sarah!" he said, sternly; but she interrupted him.

"It's thruth," said she; "an I went with--"

"What are you spakin' about? Me go out, an' not know it! Nonsense!"

"You went in your sleep, she rejoined.

"Did I spake?" said he, with a black and; ghastly look.
"What--what--tell me--eh? What did I say?"

"You talked a good deal, an' said that it was Condy Dalton that
murdhered him, and that you had Red Rody to prove it."

"That was what I said?--eh, Sarah?"

"That's what you said, an' I thought it was only right to tell you."

"It was right, Sarah; but at the same time, at the peril of your life,
never folly me there again. Of coorse, you know now that Sullivan is
buried there."

"I do," said she; "but that's no great comfort, although it is to know
that you didn't murdher him. At any rate, father, remember what I tould
you about Condy Dalton. Lave him to God; an' jist that you may feel
what you ought to feel on the subject, suppose you were in his
situation--suppose for a minute that it was yourself that murdhered
him--then ask, would you like to be dragged out from us and hanged, in
your ould age, like a dog--a disgrace to all belongin' to you. Father,
I'll believe that Condy Dalton murdhered him, when I hear it from his
own lips, but not till then. Now, Good-bye. You won't find me at home
when you come back, I think."

"Why, where are you goin'?"

"There's plenty for me to do," she replied; "there's the sick an' the
dyin' on all hands about me, an' it's a shame for any one that has a
heart in their body, to see their fellow-creatures gaspin' for want of
a dhrop of cowld wather to wet their lips, or a hand to turn them where
they lie. Think of how many poor sthrangers is lyin'