forgotten memory appeared to flash at once across his brain; his
countenance changed from the wild and unsettled expression which it
bore, to one more stamped with the earnest humanity of our better
nature.

"Oh, Connor!" he at last exclaimed, putting his two hands into those of
his son: "can you pity me, an' forgive me? You see, my poor boy, how I'm
sufferin', an' you see that I can't--I won't--be able to bear up against
this long."

The tears here ran down his worn and hollow cheeks.

"Oh," he proceeded, "how could I forget you, my darlin' boy? But I
hardly think my head's right. If I had you with me, an' before my eyes,
you'd keep my heart right, an' give me strength, which I stand sorely in
need of. Saints in glory! how could I forget you, acushla, an' what now
can I do for you? Not a penny have I to pay lawyer, or attorney, or any
one, to defind you at your trial, and it so near!"

"Why, haven't you settled all that with Mr. Cassidy, the attorney?"

"Not a bit, achora machree, not a bit; I was wid him this day, an' had
agreed, but whin I wint to give him an ordher on P----, he--oh saints
above! he whistled at me an' it--an' tould me that P----was gone to
that nest o' robbers, the Isle of Man."

"Connor," said he, feebly, "I am unwell--unwell--come and sit down by
me."

"You are too much distressed every way, father," said his son, taking
his place upon his iron bedstead beside him.

"I am," said Fardorougha, calmly; "I am too much distressed--sit nearer
me, Connor. I wish your mother was here, but she wasn't able to come,
she's unwell too; a good mother she was, Connor, and a good wife."

The son was struck, and somewhat alarmed, by this sudden and
extraordinary calmness of the old man.

"Father dear," said he, "don't be too much disheartened--all will be
well yet, I hope--my trust in God is strong."

"I hope all will be well," replied the old man, "sit nearer me, an'
Connor, let me lay my head over upon your breast. I'm thinkin' a great
dale. Don't the world say, Connor, that I am a bad man?"

"I don't care what the world says; no one in it ever durst say as much
to me, father dear."

The old man looked up affectionately, but shook his head apparently in
calm but rooted sorrow.

"Put your arms about me, Connor, and keep my head a little more up; I'm
weak an' tired, an', someway, spakin's a throuble to me; let me think
for a while."

"Do so, father," said the son, with deep compassion; "God knows