“Condy Dalton.”
“Ay, Condy Dalton!—the Lord be about us! An' Sullivan—Sullivan was the name of the man that was murdhered, you say?”
“Yes, Bartley Sullivan—God rest him!”
“An' whisper—tell me—God presarve us!—was there anything done to your father, avick? What was done to him?”
“Why, he was taken up on suspicion soon afther it happened; but—but—there was nothing done: they had no proof against him, an' he was let go again.”
“Is your father alive still?”
“He is livin',” replied Dalton; “but come—pass on, ould man,” he added, bitterly; “I'll give you no more information.”
“Well, thank you, dear,” said the pedlar; “I ax your pardon for givin' you pain—an' the colleen here—ay, you're a Sullivan, then—an' a purty but sorrowful lookin' crature your are, God knows. Poor things! God pity you both an' grant you a betther fate than what appears to be before you! for I did hear a thrifle of your discoorse.”
There was something singularly benevolent and kind in the old pedlar's voice, as he uttered the last words, and he had not gone many perches from the stone, when Dalton's heart relented as he reflected on his harsh and unfriendly demeanor towards him.
“That is a good ould man,” he observed, “and I am now sorry that I spoke to him so roughly—there was kindness in his voice and in his eye as he looked upon us.”