“May God in heaven pity you, Miss Oona,” exclaimed the poor girl, whilst the tears gushed from her eyes, “as I do this day! Oh, keep up your heart, Miss, darlin'! for where there's life there's hope.” Little did she then dream, however, that hope would so soon restored to her heart, or that the revolution of another year should see her waiting with trembling delight for the fulness of her happiness. On the evening previous to Bartle Flanagan's execution, she was pouring out tea for her father and mother, as was usual, when her brother John came home on his return from the assizes. Although the smile of affection with which she always received him lit up her dark glossy eyes, yet he observed that she appeared unusually depressed, and much more pale than she had been for some time past. “Una, are you unwell, dear?” he asked, as she handed him a cup of tea. She looked at him with a kind of affectionate reproof in her eyes, as if she wondered that he should be ignorant of the sorrow which preyed upon her. “Not in health, John,” she replied; “but that man's trial, and the many remembrances it has stirred up in my mind, have disturbed me. I am very much cast down, as you may see. Indeed, to speak the truth, and without disguise, I think that my heart is broken. Every one knows that a breaking heart is incurable.” “You take it too much to yourself, a lanna dhas,” said her mother; “but you must keep up your spirits, darlin'--time will work wonders.” “With me, mother, it never can.” “Una,” said John, with affected gravity, “you have just made two assertions which I can prove to be false.” She looked at him with surprise. “False, dear John?” “Yes, false, dear Una; and I will prove it, as I said. In the first place, there is a cure for a breaking' heart; and, in the next place, time will work wonders even for you.” “Well,” said she, assuming a look of sickly cheerfulness, “I should be very ungrateful, John, if I did not smile for you, even when you don't smile yourself, after all the ingenious plans you take to keep up my spirits.” “My dear girl,” replied John, “I will not trifle with you; I ask you now to be firm, and say whether you are capable of hearing--good news.” “Good news to me! I hope I am, John.” “Well, then, I have to inform you that this day Bartle Flanagan has confessed that it was not Connor O'Donovan who burned our haggard, but himself. The sheriff has written to inform the Government, so that we will have Connor back again with a name and character unsullied.” She looked at him for a moment, then at her parents; and her cheek still got paler, and after a slight pause she burst into a vehement and irrepressible paroxysm of grief. “John, is this true?” inquired his father. “Vic va hoiah! John--blessed mother!--thrue?--but is it, John? is it?” “Indeed, it is, mother--the villain, now, that he has no hope of his life, confessed it this day!”