at--I'm a wake, sinful mortal."

"Bekaise they're about me continually an'--let me see--who are you? I
know you. One o' them said a while ago, 'May God relieve you and restore
you wanst more to health;' I heard the voice."

"Dear Sarah, don't you know me?" reiterated Mave; "look at me--don't you
know Mave Sullivan--your friend, Mave Sullivan, that knows your value
and loves you."

"Who?" she asked, starting a little; "who--what name is that?--who is
it?--say it again."

"Don't you know Mave Sullivan, that loves you, an' feels for your
miserable situation, my dear Sarah."

"I never had a guardian angel, nor any one to take care o' me--nor a
mother, many a time--often--often the whole world--jist to look at her
face--an' to know--feel--love me. Oh, a dhrink, a dhrink--is there no
one to get me a dhrink! I'm burnin', I'm burnin'--is there no one to get
me a dhrink! Mave Sullivan, Mave Sullivan, have pity on me! I heard some
one name her--I heard her voice--I'll die without a dhrink."

Mave looked about the desolate shed, and to her delight spied a tin
porringer, which Sarah's unhappy predecessors had left behind them;
seizing this, she flew to a little stream that ran by the place, and
filling the vessel, returned and placed it to Sarah's lips. She drank
it eagerly, and looking piteously and painfully up into Mave's face, she
laid back her head, and appeared to breathe more freely. Mave hoped that
the drink of cold water would have cooled her fever and assuaged her
thirst, so as to have brought her to a rational state--such a state
as would have enabled the poor girl to give some account of the
extraordinary situation in which she found herself, and of the
circumstances which occasioned her to take shelter in such a place. In
this, however, she was disappointed. Sarah having drank the cold water,
once more shut her eyes, and fell into that broken and oppressive
slumber which characterizes the terrible malady which had stricken her
down. For some time she waited with this benign expectation, but seeing
there was no likelihood of her restoration, to consciousness, she again
filled the tin vessel, and placing it upon a stone by her bedside,
composed the poor girl's dress about her, and turned her steps toward a
scene in which she expected to find equal misery.

It is not our intention, however, to dwell upon it. It is sufficient
to say, that she found the Daltons--who, by the way, had a pretty long
visit from the pedl