ought in the old man's appearance.

"Good God, father dear!" he exclaimed, as the latter threw his arms with
a tight and clinging grasp about him; "good heavens! what has happened
to change you so much for the worse? Why, if you fret this way about me,
you'll soon break your heart. Why will you fret, father, when you know
I am innocent? Surely, at the worst, it is better to die innocent than
to live guilty."

"Connor," said the old man, still clinging tenaciously to him, and
looking wildly into his face, "Connor, it's broke--my heart's broke
at last. Oh, Connor, won't you pity me when you hear it--won't you,
Connor--oh, when you hear it, Connor, won't you pity me? It's gone, it's
gone, it's gone--he's off, off--to that nest of robbers, the Isle of
Man, and has robbed me and half the county. P----has; I'm a ruined man,
a beggar, an' will die a dog's death."

Connor looked down keenly into his father's face, and began to entertain
a surmise so terrible that the beatings of his heart were in a moment
audible to his own ear.

"Father," he inquired, "in the name of God what is wrong with you? What
is it you spake of? Has P----gone off with your money? Sit down, and
don't look so terrified."

"He has, Connor--robbed me an' half the county--he disappeared the
evenin' of the very day I left my last lodgment wid him; he's in that
nest of robbers, the Isle of Man, an' I'm ruined--ruined! Oh God!
Connor, how can I stand it? all my earnin's an' my savin's an' the
fruits of my industry in his pocket, an' upon his back, an' upon his
bones! My brain is reelin'--I dunna what I'm doin', nor what I'll do.
To what hand now can I turn myself? Who'll assist me! I dunna what I'm
doin', nor scarcely what I'm sayin'. My head's all in confusion. Gone!
gone! gone! Oh see the luck that has come down upon me! Above all men,
why was I singled out to be made a world's wondher of--why was I? What
did I do? I robbed no one; yet it's gone--an' see the death that's afore
me! oh God! oh God!"

"Well, father, let it go--you have still your health; you have still
my poor mother to console you; and I hope you'll soon have myself, too;
between us well keep you comfortable, and, if you'll allow us to take
our own way, more so than ever you did--"

Pardorougha started, as if struck by some faint but sudden recollection.
All at once he looked with amazement around the room, and afterwards
with a pause of inquiry, at his son. At length, a light of some