Biddy's task, then, was to recount to the unhappy girl such anecdotes as she remembered of him; and, as these were all to his advantage, we need scarcely say that many an entertainment of this kind she was called upon to furnish to her whose melancholy enjoyment was now only the remembrance of him, and what he had once been to her.
“I would have been in a convent long before now, Biddy,” said she, a few days before Flanagan's trial, “but I cannot leave my father and mother, because I know they could not live without me. My brother John has declined Maynooth lest I should feel melancholy for want of some person to amuse me and to cheer me; and now I feel that it would be an ungrateful return I should make if I entered a convent and left my parents without a daughter whom they love so well, and my brother without a sister on whom he doats.”
“Well, Miss,” replied Biddy, “don't be cast down; for my part I'd always hope for the best. Who knows, Miss, but a betther lave may be turned up for you yet? I'd hould a naggin' that God nivir intinded an innocent creature like you to spind the rest of your life in sadness and sorrow, as you're doin'. Always hope for the best.”
“Ah, Biddy,” she replied, “you don't know what you speak of. His sentence is one that can never be changed; and as for hoping for the best how can I do that, Biddy, when I know that I have no 'best' to hope for. He was my best in this world; but he is gone. Now go in, Biddy, and leave me to myself for a little. You know how I love to be alone.”
“May God in heaven pity you, Miss Oona,” exclaimed the poor girl, whilst the tears gushed from her eyes, “as I do this day! Oh, keep up your heart, Miss, darlin'! for where there's life there's hope.”
Little did she then dream, however, that hope would so soon restored to her heart, or that the revolution of another year should see her waiting with trembling delight for the fulness of her happiness.
On the evening previous to Bartle Flanagan's execution, she was pouring out tea for her father and mother, as was usual, when her brother John came home on his return from the assizes. Although the smile of affection with which she always received him lit up her dark glossy eyes, yet he observed that she appeared unusually depressed, and much more pale than she had been for some time past.
“Una, are you unwell, dear?” he asked, as she handed him a cup of tea.
She looked at him with a kind of affectionate reproof in her eyes, as if she wondered that he should be ignorant of the sorrow which preyed upon her.
“Not in health, John,” she replied; “but that man's trial, and the many remembrances it has stirred up in my mind, have disturbed me. I am very much cast down, as you may see. Indeed, to speak the truth, and without disguise, I think that my heart is broken. Every one knows that a breaking heart is incurable.”