language, the sacrifice of feeling which it had cost her, and
the invincible disgust with which she heard his very name alluded
to. She then simply related the circumstance of his entering her
room through the open window, and her belief, in consequence of the
representations of Poll Doolin, that he did so out of his excessive
anxiety to prevent bloodshed by the troopers--the trampling of whose
horses' feet and the ringing of whose arms had so completely overpowered
her with the apprehension of violence, that she became incapable of
preventing M'Clutchy's entrance, or even of uttering a word for two or
three minutes.

"However," said she, "I now see their design, which was to' ruin my
reputation, and throw a stain upon my character and good name. So far, I
fear, they have succeeded." Tears then came to her relief, and she wept
long and bitterly.

"Do not let it trouble you, my darling," said her father. "Your
conscience and heart are innocent, and that is a satisfaction greater
than anything can deprive you of. You were merely wrong in not letting
us know the conversation that took place between Poll Doolin and you;
because, although you did not know it, we could have told you that Poll
is a woman that no modest female ought to speak to in a private way.
There was your error, Mary; but the heart was right with you, and
there's no one here going to blame you for a fault that you didn't know
to be one."

Mary started on hearing this account of Poll Doolin, for she felt now
that the interviews she held with her were calculated to heighten her
disgrace, when taken in connection with the occurrence of the night.
Her brothers, however, who knew her truth and many virtues, joined their
parents in comforting and supporting her, but without the success which
they could have wished. The more she thought of the toils and snares
that had been laid for her, the more her perception of the calamity
began to gain strength, and her mind to darken. She became restless,
perplexed, and feverish--her tears ceased to flow--she sighed deeply,
and seemed to sink into that most withering of maladies, dry grief,
which, in her case, was certainly the tearless anguish of the heart.
In this state she went to bed, conscious of her own purity, but by no
means, in its full extent, of the ruined reputation to which she must
awake on the succeeding day.

Mary's brothers, with the exception of the words in which they joined
their father and mother i