Such, indeed, was the fact. The old man's hardness of heart was forgotten in the pity that was produced by the dreadful fate which awaited his unhappy son. We must now pass briefly over occurrences which are better understood when left to the reader's imagination. John O'Brien was not the only one who interested himself in the fate of Connor. Fardorougha, as a matter of course, got the priest of the parish, a good and pious man, to draw up a memorial in the name, as he said, of himself and his wife. The gentry of the neighborhood, also, including the members of the grand jury, addressed government on his behalf--for somehow there was created among those who knew the parties, or even who heard the history of their loves, a sympathy which resulted more from those generous impulses that intuitively perceive truth, than from the cooler calculations of reason. The heart never reasons--it is, therefore, the seat of feeling, and the fountain of mercy; the head does--and it is probably on that account the seat of justice, often of severity, and not unfrequently of cruelty and persecution, Connor himself was much relieved by that day's interview with his father. Even he could perceive a change for the better in the old man's deportment. Fardorougha's praises of Honor, and his strong allusions to the support and affection he experienced at her hands, under circumstances so trying, were indeed well calculated to prepare “her noble boy,” as she truly called him, for the reception of the still more noble message which she sent him. “Father,” said he, as they separated that day, “tell my mother that I will die as she wishes me; and tell her, too, that if I wasn't an innocent man, I could not do it. And oh, father,” he added, and he seized his hands, and fell upon his neck, “oh, father dear, if you love me, your own Connor--and I know you do--oh, then, father dear, I say again, be guided in this heavy affliction by my dear mother's advice.” “Connor,” returned the old man, deeply affected, “I will. I had made my mind up to that afore I saw you at all to-day. Connor, do you know what I'm beginning to think?” “No, father dear, I do not.” “Why, then, it's this, that she'll be the manes of savin' your father's soul. Connor, I can look back now upon my money--all I lost--it was no doubt terrible--terrible all out. Connor, my rint is due, and I haven't the manes of meetin' it.” Alas! thought the boy, how hard it is to root altogether out of the heart that principle which inclines it to the love of wealth! “At any rate, I will take your advice, Connor, and be guided by your mother. She's very poorly, or she'd be wid you afore now; but, indeed, Connor, her health is the occasion of it--it is--it is!”