But, alas, of what avail was all this sympathy and indignation to the unfortunate youth himself or to those most deeply interested in his fate? Would not the very love and sorrow felt towards her son fall upon his mother's heart with a heavier weight of bitterness and agony? Would not his Una's soul be wounded on that account with a sharper and more deadly pang of despair and misery? It would, indeed, be difficult to say whether the house of Bodagh Buie or that of Fardorougha was then in the deeper sorrow. On the morning of Connor's trial, Una arose at an earlier hour than usual, and it was observed when she sat at breakfeast, that her cheek was at one moment pale as death, and again flushed and feverish. These symptoms were first perceived by her affectionate brother, who, on witnessing the mistakes she made in pouring out the tea, exchanged a glance with his parents, and afterwards asked her to allow him to take her place. She laid down the tea-pot, and, looking him mournfully in the face, attempted to smile at a request so unusual. “Una, dear,” said he, “you must allow me. There is no necessity for attempting to conceal what you feel--we all know it--and if we did not, the fact of your having filled the sugar-bowl instead of the tea-cup would soon discover it.” She said nothing, but looked at him again, as if she scarcely comprehended what he said. A glance, however, at the sugar-bowl convinced her that she was incapable of performing the usual duties of the breakfast table. Hitherto she had not raised her eyes to her father or mother's face, nor spoken to them as had been her wont, when meeting at that strictly domestic meal. The unrestrained sobbings of the mother now aroused her for the first time, and on looking up, she saw her father wiping away the big tears from his eyes. “Una, avourneen,” said the worthy man, “let John make tay for us--for, God help you, you can't do it. Don't fret, achora machree, don't, don't, Una; as God is over me, I'd give all I'm worth to save him, for your sake.” She looked at her father and smiled again; but that smile cut him to the heart. “I will make the tea myself, father,” she replied, “and I _won't_ commit any more mistakes;” and as she spoke she unconsciously poured the tea into the slop--bowl. “Avourneen,” said her mother, “let John do it; acushla machree, let him do it.” She then rose, and without uttering a word, passively and silently placed herself on her brother's chair--he having, at the same time, taken that on which she sat. “Una,” said her father, taking her hand, “you must be a good girl, and you must have courage; and whatever happens, my darling, you'll pluck up strength, I hope, and bear it.” “I hope so, father,” said she, “I hope so.” “But, avourneen machree,” said her mother, “I would rather see you cryin' fifty times over, than smilin' the way you do.” “Mother,” said she, “my heart is sore--my heart is sore.”