We shall not attempt to describe the commotions of love, of happiness, of rapture, which filled Reilly's bosom as he took his departure. As for _Cooleen Bawn_, she had now passed the Rubicon, and there remained nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the result what it might. She had, indeed, much of the vehemence of her father's character in her; much of his unchangeable purpose, when she felt or thought she was right; but not one of his unfounded whims or prejudices; for she was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced by unbecoming or inadequate motives. With an indignant but beautiful scorn, that gave grace to resentment, she bowed to the baronet, then kissed her father affectionately and retired. The old man, after she had gone, sat for a considerable time silent. In fact, the superior force of his daughter's character had not only surprised, but overpowered him for the moment. The baronet attempted to resume the conversation, but he found not his intended father-in-law in the mood for it. The light of truth, as it flashed from the spirit of his daughter, seemed to dispel the darkness of his recent suspicions; he dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude with a temporary remorse. “I cannot speak to you, Sir Robert,” he said; “I am confused, disturbed, distressed. If I have treated that young man ungratefully, God may forgive me, but I will never forgive myself.” “Take care, sir,” said the baronet, “that you are not under the spell of the Jesuit and your daughter too. Perhaps you will find, when it is too late, that she is the more spellbound of the two. If I don't mistake, the spell begins to work already. In the meantime, as Miss Folliard will have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night, sir;” and as he spoke he took his departure. For a long time the old man sat looking into the fire, where he began gradually to picture to himself strange forms and objects in the glowing embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee about to shoot him; another, Willy Reilly making love to his daughter; and behind all, a high gallows, on which he beheld the said Reilly hanging for his crime. In about an hour afterwards Miss Folliard returned to the drawing-room, where she found her father asleep in his arm-chair. Having awakened him gently from what appeared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and, forgetting for a moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. In a few moments, however, he recollected the circumstances that had taken place, and after heaving a deep sigh, he opened his arms for his daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears. “Helen,” said he, “I am unhappy; I am distressed; I know not what to do!--may God forgive me if I have treated this young man with ingratitude. But, at all events, a few days will clear it all up.”