And so ended their dialogue, little, indeed, to the satisfaction of Harry, whom Barney left in complete ignorance of the significant exclamations by which Grace Davoren, in the alarm of the moment, had betrayed her own guilt, by stating that Shawn-na-Middogue had stabbed the wrong man. Sarah Sullivan--poor, thoughtless, but affectionate girl--on repairing with the thin toast to her mistress's bedroom, felt so brimful of the disaster which had befallen Charles, that---now believing in his guilt, as she did, and with a hope of effectually alienating Alice's affections from him--she lost not a moment in communicating the melancholy intelligence to her. “O, Miss Alice!” she exclaimed, “have you heard what has happened? O, the false fend treacherous villain! Who would believe it? To lave a beautiful lady like you, and take up with sich a vulgar vagabone! However, he has suffered for it. _Shawn-na-Middogue_ did for him.” “What do you mean, Sarah?” said her mistress, much alarmed by such a startling-preface; “explain yourself. I do not understand, you.” “But you soon will, miss. Shawn-na-Middogue found Mr. Charles Lindsay and Grace Davoren together last night, and has stabbed him to death; life's only in him; and that's the gentleman that pretended to love you. Devil's cure to the villain!” She paused. The expression of her mistress's face was awful. A pallor more frightful than that of death, because it was associated with life, overspread her countenance. Her eyes became dim and dull; her features in a moment were collapsed, and resembled those of some individual struck by paralysis--they were altogether without meaning. She clasped and unclasped her hands, like one under the influence of strong hysterical agony; she laid herself back in bed, where she had been sitting up expecting her coffee, her eyes closed, for she had not physical strength even to keep them open, and with considerable difficulty she said, in a low and scarcely audible voice,--“My mother!”