in ditches an' in
barns, an' in outhouses, without a livin' bein' a'most to look to them,
or reach them any single thing they want; no, even to bring the priest
to them, that they might die reconciled to the Almighty. Isn't it a
shame, then, for me, an' the likes o' me, that has health an' strength,
an' nothin' to do, to see my fellow-creatures dyin' on all hands about
me, for want of the very assistance that I can afford them. At any rate,
I wouldn't live in the house with that woman, an' you know that, an'
that I oughtn't."

"But aren't you afeard of catchin' this terrible faver, that's takin'
away so many, if you go among them'?"

"Afeard!" she replied; "no, father, I feel no fear either of that or
anything else. If I die, I lave a world that I never had much happiness
in, an' I know that I'll never be happy again in it. What then have I to
fear from death? Any change for me must now be for the betther; at all
events it can hardly be for the worse. No; my happiness is gone."

"What in Heaven's name is the matther with you?" asked her father; "an'
what brings the big tears into your eyes that way?"

"Good-bye," said she; and as she spoke, a melancholy smile--at once sad
and brilliant--irradiated her features. "It's not likely, father, that
ever you'll see me under your roof again. Forgive me all my follies now,
maybe it's the last time ever you'll have an opportunity."

"Tut, you foolish girl; it's enough to sicken one to hear you spake such
stuff!"

She stood and looked at him for a moment, and the light of her smile
gradually deepened, or rather faded away, until nothing remained but a
face of exquisite beauty, deeply shadowed by anxiety and distress.

The Prophet pursued his way to Dick o' the Grange's, whither, indeed,
he was bent; Sarah, having looked after him for a moment with a troubled
face, proceeded in the direction of old Dalton's, with the sufferings
and pitiable circumstances of whose family she was already but too well
acquainted. Her journey across the country presented her with little
else than records of death, suffering, and outrage. Along the roads the
funerals were so frequent, that, in general, they excited no particular
notice. They could, in fact scarcely be termed funerals, inasmuch as
they were now nothing more than squalid and meagre-looking knots of
those who were immediately related to the deceased, hurrying onward,
with reckless speed and disturbed looks to the churchyard, where th