we sympathize with you--but, in the meantime, do see
and hear this woman."

He had scarcely uttered the words when the servant entered, stating that
she was at the door.

"Let her come in," said Harman; "let the vile wretch come in."

"And, do you, John, withdraw," said Hickman.

Poll Doolin entered.

Her appearance threw Harman into a violent state of agitation; he
trembled, got pale, and seemed absolutely sickened by the presence of
the wicked wretch who had been the vile instrument of Phil M'Clutchy's
success, of Mary M'Loughlin's dishonor, and of his own unhappiness. It
was the paleness, however, of indignation, of distress, of misery, of
despair. His blood, despite the paleness of his face, absolutely boiled
in his veins, and that the more hotly, because he had no object on which
he could wreak his vengeance. Poll, who was always cool, and not without
considerable powers of observation, at once noticed the tumult of his
feelings, and, as if replying to them, said--

"I don't blame you, Mr. Harman, thinkin' as you do; the sight of me
is not pleasant to you--and, indeed, you don't hate me more than you
ought."

"What is your business with me?" said Harman.

Poll looked around her for a moment, and replied--

"I'm glad of it, the more the better; Francis Harman," she proceeded,
"sit down, and listen to me; yes, listen to me--for I have it in my
power to make you a happy man."

"Great God! could my dream be true?" said Harman, placing himself in the
chair.

"Listen to me," she continued.

"I listen; be brief--for I am in no humor for either falsehood or
imposture."

"I never bore you ill-will," she said, "and yet I have--and may God
forgive me for it I--scalded the very heart within you."

Harman again covered his face with his hands and groaned.

"Will it relieve your heart to know that Mary M'Loughlin's an innocent
and a slandered girl?"

"Prove that," said Harman, starting to his feet, "oh, prove that, Poll,
and never whilst I have life shall you want a--but, alas!" he exclaimed,
"I am a beggar, and can promise you nothing."

"And I'll tell you who beggared you before all is over--but, as I said,
listen. It's now fifteen years since Brian M'Loughlin transported my son
Dick, for stealin' a horse from him; he was my only son, barrin' poor
Raymond, who was then a mere slip. He was a fine young man, but he was
wild and wicked, and it was in Squire Deaker's house, and about
Squire Deaker's stables,