trembling, and getting as pale as death; "there is--there is a
blood-mark on the very spot she mentions--see here."

"I would know him to be Andy Hart's son, God rest him!" observed Lamh
Laudher More, "any where over the world. Blessed mother of heaven!--down
on your knees, you miserable crature, down on your knees for her pardon!
You've murdhered your unfortunate mother!"

The man gave one loud and fearful yell, and dashed himself on the
floor at his mother's feet, an appalling picture of remorse. The scene,
indeed, was a terrible one. He rolled himself about, tore his hair, and
displayed every symptom of a man in a paroxysm of madness. But among
those present, with the exception of the mother and son, there was not
such a picture of distress and sorrow, as the wife of the Dead Boxer.
She stooped down to raise the stranger up; "Unhappy man," said she,
"look up, I am your sister!"

"No," said Nell, "no--no--no. There's more of my guilt. Lamh Laudher
More, I stand forrid, you and your wife. You lost a daughter long ago.
Open your arms and take her back a blameless woman. She's your child
that I robbed you of as one punishment; the other blow that I intended
for you has been struck here. I'm dyin'."

A long cry of joy burst from the mother and daughter, as they rushed
into each other's arms. Nature, always strongest in pure minds, even
before this denouement, had, indeed, rekindled the mysterious flame of
her own affection in their hearts. The father pressed her to his bosom,
and forgot the terrors of the sound before him, whilst the son embraced
her with a secret consciousness that she was, indeed, his long-lost
sister.