“Here,”, said Denis, “let me sprinkle her face with this cool water, that we may recover her, if possible. Your anger and your outrage, Owen, overcame the timid creature. Speak kindly to her, she is recovering. Thank God, she is recovering.”
“Susy, avourneen,” said the father, “rouse yourself,' ma colleen; rouse yourself, an' don't thrimble that way. The sorra one o' me's angry wid you, at all at all.”
“Oh, bring me home,” said the poor girl. “Father, dear, have no bad opinion of me. I done nothing, an' I hope I never will do anything, that would bring the blush of shame to your face.”
“That's as true as that God's in heaven,” observed Denis. “The angels in his presence be not purer than she is.”
“I take her own word for it,” said the father; “a lie, to the best of my knowledge, never came from her lips.”
“Let us assist her home,” said Denis. “I told you that we must have some serious conversation about her. I'll take one arm, and do you take the other.”
“Do so,” said the father, “an', Denny, as you're the youngest and the strongest, jist take up that pitcher o' wather in your hand, an' carry it to the house above.”
Denis, who was dressed in his best black from top to toe, made a wry face or two at this proposal. He was able, however, for Susan's sake, to compromise his dignity: so looking about him, to be certain that there was no other person observing them, he seized the pitcher in one hand, gave Susan his arm, and in this unheroic manner assisted to conduct her home.
In about half an hour or better after this, Denis and Owen Connor proceeded in close and earnest conversation towards old Shaughnessy's. On entering, Denis requested to speak with his father and brothers in private.
“Father,” said he, “this night is pregnant—that is, vulgariter, in the family way—with my fate.”