“It is, ahagur machree; and your hand is tremblin' so much that you can't bring the tay--cup to your mouth; but, then, don't smile so sorrowfully, anein machree.” “Why should I cry, mother?” she replied; “I know that Connor is innocent. If I knew him to be guilty, I would weep, and I ought to weep.” “At all events, Una,” said her father, “you know it's the government, and not us, that's prosecuting him.” To this Una made no reply, but, thrusting away her cup, she looked with the same mournful smile from one to the other of the little circle about her. At length she spoke. “Father, I have a request to ask of you.” “If it's within my power, Una darling, I'll grant it; and if it's not, it'll go hard with me but I'll bring it within my power. What is it, asthore machree?” “In case he's found guilty, to let John put off his journey to Maynooth, and stay with me for some time--it won't be long I'll keep him.” “If it pleases you, darling, he'll never put his foot into Maynooth again.” “No,” said the mother, “dhamnho to the step, if you don't wish him.” “Oh, no, no,” said Una, “it's only for a while.” “Unless she desires it, I will never go,” replied the loving brother; “nor will I ever leave you in your sorrow, my beloved and only sister--never--never--so long as a word from my lips can give you consolation.” The warm tears coursed each other down his cheeks as he spoke, and both his parents, on looking at the almost blighted flower before them, wept as if the hand of death had already been upon her. “Father, and John are going to his trial,” she observed; “for me I like to be alone;--alone; but when you return to-night, let John break it to me. I'll go now to the garden. I'll walk about to-day--only before you go, John, I want to speak to you.” Calmly and without a tear, she then left the parlor, and proceeded to the garden, where she began to dress and ornament the hive which contained the swarm that Connor had brought to her on the day their mutual attachment was first disclosed to each other. “Father,” said John, when she had gone, “I'm afraid that Una's heart is broken, or if not broken, that she won't survive his conviction long--it's breaking fast--for my part, in her present state, I neither will nor can leave her.” The affectionate father made no reply, but, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, wept, as did her mother, in silent but bitter grief. “I cannot spake about it, nor think of it, John,” said he, after some time, “but we must do what we can for her.” “If anything happens her,” said the mother, “I'd never get over it. Oh marciful Savior! how could we live widout her?”