“I doubt it,” was the reply. “Why?” asked the gipsy, sharply.’ “The reason you shall know presently. Mary,” he continued, “have you forgotten events that happened nineteen years ago?” “Can they ever be forgotten, Hacket?--my own disgrace--my brother’s murder.” “And yet, Mary, you have not the reason to recollect them that I have. You were never banished.” “Was I not worse than banished?” returned the gipsy. “See what my life has been since I was disgraced and driven from my native land--with one passing gleam of happiness, a scene of guilt, and crime, and misery. Once my wandering career was stayed; I was loved, and raised from poverty; I was sheltered, protected, educated. My wayward destiny had found a home at last; and the evening of a troubled life promised to end in peace and quiet. Accident in a moment robbed me of him on whom my future fate depended--and I was again cast upon the world, when I had experienced enough of happiness only to estimate its loss more acutely. Have not misery and suffering been my companions since? I have felt the indignity of a gaol; I have been the inmate of a madhouse; I am now a half-crazed wanderer. Homeless and friendless I’ll live; and when the spirit passes, no holy lip shall breathe a prayer for the soul’s repose of a nameless outcast, who probably will perish on a dung-hill.” “And what would you give for vengence on him whose fickle love caused you this misery and shame? Listen, Mary; before three suns go down in ocean, vengeance shall be ours!” “How? speak, Hacket?” “Denis O’Halloran shall be childless--through the son’s heart I’ll reach the father’s.--Attend!”--and Hacket rapidly detailed the outline of the foul conspiracy. “With lips apart, and eyes fixed intensely on the narrator’s countenance, Mary Halligan listened in silence. Suddenly the street-bell rang once more, and Haeket was called away, leaving the gipsy alone.