r and an accomplice, and the suspicions of
himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the
kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him.
He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss
Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped
with Willy Reilly. The uproar then commenced, the house was
searched, but no _Cooleen Bawn_ was found. Cummiskey himself remained
comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less
than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man
must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such
unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining that she was not
in the house, he went upstairs to his master's bedroom, having the
candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply
from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The
case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to
communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely
knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he
stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed:

"Good-night, Helen--good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something
to tell you about the discovery of--but I will let you know it to-morrow
at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to
bed, my love."

"Sir," said Cummiskey, "I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you."

"What? who? who's there? I thought it was my daughter."

"No, sir, I wish it was; I'm come to tell you that Miss Folliard can't
be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no
purpose: wherever she is, she's not undher this roof. I came to tell
you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what's to be done."

"What," he exclaimed, starting up, "my child!--my child--my child gone!
God of heaven! God of heaven, support me!--my darling! my treasure! my
delight!--Oh, Cummiskey!--but it can't be--to desert me!--to leave me in
misery and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!--she that was the prop of
my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, Cummiskey,
it is not so, it can't be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the
house; you don't know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this
night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she--ha--what? what?--she
wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! an