During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she turned to him and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service--the service indeed so important that no language could find expression for it--which you have rendered to dear papa, and to me. But, Mr. Reilly, I pray you do not think me ungrateful, or insensible, for, indeed, I am neither. Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot express it.” “If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have saved, and if it were not that your happiness was so deeply involved in it,” replied Reilly, “I would say that you overrate what I have done this evening. But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of my services, and I thank heaven for having made me the humble instrument of saving your father's life, not only for his own sake, Miss Folliard, but for yours. I now feel a double debt of gratitude to heaven for it.” The _Cooleen Bawn_ did not speak, but the tears ran down her cheeks. “Good-night, sir,” she said. “I am utterly incapable of thanking you as you deserve, and as I ought to thank you. Good-night!” She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke. Reilly took it in his, and by some voluntary impulse he could not avoid giving it a certain degree of pressure. The fact is, it was such a hand--so white--so small--so soft--so warm--so provocative of a squeeze--that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor wherefore, at least he thought so at the time; that is to say, if he were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing. But heaven and earth! Was it true! No delusion? No dream? The pressure returned! the slightest, the most gentle, the most delicate pressure--the barely perceptible pressure! Yes! it was beyond all doubt; for although the act itself was light as delicacy and modesty could make it, yet the spirit--the lightening spirit--which it shot into his bounding and enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken. As she was running up the stairs she returned, however, and again approaching her father, said--whilst Reilly could observe that her cheek was flushed with a feeling that seemed to resemble ecstasy--“Papa,” said she, “what a stupid girl I am! I scarcely know what I am saying or doing.” “By the great Boyne,” replied her father, “I'll describe him to you every night in the week. I knew the curve--the line of beauty--would get into your head; but what is it, darling?” “Will you and Mr. Reilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shall I send it down to you?” “I am too comfortable in my easy chair, dear Helen: no, send it down.” “After the shock you have received, papa, perhaps you might wish to have it from the hand of your own Cooleen Bawn?”