“You take it too much to yourself, a lanna dhas,” said her mother; “but you must keep up your spirits, darlin'—time will work wonders.”
“With me, mother, it never can.”
“Una,” said John, with affected gravity, “you have just made two assertions which I can prove to be false.”
She looked at him with surprise.
“False, dear John?”
“Yes, false, dear Una; and I will prove it, as I said. In the first place, there is a cure for a breaking' heart; and, in the next place, time will work wonders even for you.”
“Well,” said she, assuming a look of sickly cheerfulness, “I should be very ungrateful, John, if I did not smile for you, even when you don't smile yourself, after all the ingenious plans you take to keep up my spirits.”
“My dear girl,” replied John, “I will not trifle with you; I ask you now to be firm, and say whether you are capable of hearing—good news.”
“Good news to me! I hope I am, John.”
“Well, then, I have to inform you that this day Bartle Flanagan has confessed that it was not Connor O'Donovan who burned our haggard, but himself. The sheriff has written to inform the Government, so that we will have Connor back again with a name and character unsullied.”