“I will make the tea myself, father,” she replied, “and I won't commit any more mistakes;” and as she spoke she unconsciously poured the tea into the slop—bowl.
“Avourneen,” said her mother, “let John do it; acushla machree, let him do it.”
She then rose, and without uttering a word, passively and silently placed herself on her brother's chair—he having, at the same time, taken that on which she sat.
“Una,” said her father, taking her hand, “you must be a good girl, and you must have courage; and whatever happens, my darling, you'll pluck up strength, I hope, and bear it.”
“I hope so, father,” said she, “I hope so.”
“But, avourneen machree,” said her mother, “I would rather see you cryin' fifty times over, than smilin' the way you do.”
“Mother,” said she, “my heart is sore—my heart is sore.”
“It is, ahagur machree; and your hand is tremblin' so much that you can't bring the tay—cup to your mouth; but, then, don't smile so sorrowfully, anein machree.”
“Why should I cry, mother?” she replied; “I know that Connor is innocent. If I knew him to be guilty, I would weep, and I ought to weep.”
“At all events, Una,” said her father, “you know it's the government, and not us, that's prosecuting him.”