“John, bring her in,” said the father; “bring the unfortunate young crature in. I can't but pity her, Bridget; I can't but pity ma colleen voghth.”
When Una entered with her brother she perceived by a glance at the solemn bearing of her parents, that some unhappy announcement was about to be made to her. She sat down, therefore, with a beating heart and a cheek already pale with apprehension.
“Una,” said her father, “we sent for you to mention a circumstance that we would rather you should hear from ourselves than from strangers. You were always a good girl, Una—an' obadient girl, and sensible beyant your years; and I trust that your good sinse and the grace of the Almighty will enable you to bear up undher any disappointment that may come upon you.”
“Surely, father, there can be nothing worse than I know already,” she replied.
“Why, what do you know, dear?”
“Only what you told me the day Fardorougha was here, that nothing agreeable to my wishes could take place.”
“I would give a great deal that the business was now as it was even then,” responded her father; “there's far worse to come, Una, an' you must be firm, an' prepare to hear what'll thry you sorely.”
“I can't guess it, father; but for God's sake tell me at once.”
“Who do you think burned our property?”
“And I suppose if she hadn't been undher the one roof wid us that it's ourselves he'd burn,” observed her mother.