Reilly rose to open the door.

"Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa," she added, putting her snowy arms
about his neck and kissing him tenderly. "I know," she added, "that the
great object of your life is to make your _Cooleen Bawn_ happy--and in
doing so, dear papa--there now is another kiss for you--a little bribe,
papa--in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night."

"Good-night, my treasure."

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.