She then went to his chamber. The blinds and curtains of the windows had not been drawn, and it occurred to her that as her dress was so different from any which her father had ever seen on her, some suspicion might be created should he observe it. She therefore left the candlestick which she had brought with her on the inside sill of a lobby window, having observed at the door that the moonlight streamed in through the windows upon his bed. Judge of her consternation, however, when, on entering the room, her father, turning himself in the bed, asked: “Is that Helen?” “It is, papa; I thought you had been asleep, and I came up to steal my good-night kiss without any intention of awakening you.” “I drank too much, Helen, with Whitecraft, whom wine--my Burgundy--instead of warming, seems to turn into an icicle. However, he is a devilish shrewd fellow. Helen, darling, there's a jug of water on the table there; will you hand it to me; I'm all in a flame and a fever.” She did so, and her hand trembled so much that she was near spilling it. He took a long draught, after which he smacked his lips, and seemed to breathe more freely. “Helen,” said he. “Well, dear papa.” “Helen, I had something to mention to you, but--” “Don't disturb yourself to-night, papa; you are somewhat feverish,” she added, feeling his pulse; if you will excuse me, papa, I think you drank too much; your pulse is very quick; if you could fall into rest again it would be better for you.” “Yes, it would; but my mind is uneasy and sorrowful. Helen, I thought you loved me, my darling.” “Oh, could you doubt it, papa? You see I am come as usual--no, not as usual, either--to kiss you; I will place my cheek against yours, as I used to do, dear papa, and you will allow me to weep--to weep--and to say that never father deserved the love of a daughter as you have deserved mine; and never did daughter love an affectionate and indulgent father more tenderly than your _Cooleen Bawn_ does you.” “I know it, Helen, I know it; your whole life has been a proof of it, and will be a proof of it; I know you have no other object in this world than to make papa happy; I know I feel that you are great-minded enough to sacrifice everything to that.” “Well, but, papa,” she continued, “for all my former offences against you will you pity and forgive me?” “I do both, you foolish darling; but what makes you speak so?” “Because I feel melancholy to-night, papa; and now, papa, if ever I should do any thing wrong, won't you pity and forgive your own _Cooleen Bawn_?” “Get along, you gipsy--don't be crying. What could you do that papa wouldn't forgive you, unless to run away with Reilly? Don't you know that you can wind me round your finger?” “Farewell, papa,” she said, weeping all the time, for, in truth, she found it impossible to control herself; “farewell--good night! and remember that you may have a great deal to forgive your own _Cooleen Bawn_ some of these days.”