"An' maybe murdher him, as my poor brother was murdhered. Dalton, I see
the love of blood in your eye," replied Sullivan, bitterly.

"Why," replied the other, "you have no proof that the man was murdered
at all. His body was never found; and no one can say what became of him.
For all that any one knows to the contrary, he may be alive still."

"Begone, sirra," said Sullivan, in a burst of impetuous resentment which
he could not restrain, "if I ever know you to open your lips to that
daughter of mine--if the mane crature can be my daughter--I'll make it
be the blackest deed but one that ever a Dalton did; and as for you--go
in at wonst--I'll make you hear me by and by."

Dalton looked at him once more with a kindling but a smiling eye.

"Speak what you like," said he--"I'll curb myself. Only, if you wish
your daughter to go in, you had better leave the way and let her pass."

Mave--for such was her name--with trembling limbs, burning blushes and
palpitating heart, then passed from the shady angle where they stood;
but ere she did, one quick and lightning glance was bestowed upon her
lover, which, brief though it was, he felt as a sufficient consolation
for the enmity of her father.

The prophet had not yet spoken; nor indeed had time been given him to do
so, had he been inclined. He looked on, however, with' surprise, which
soon assumed the appearance, as well as the reality, of some malignant
satisfaction which he could not conceal.

He eyed Dalton with a grin of peculiar bitterness.