Her father had not yet sat down, and it was, indeed, well that he had not—for it required all his activity and strength united, to intercept the meditated blow, by seizing his daughter's arm.'
“Sarah,” said he, “what is this? are you mad, you murdhering jade, to attempt the vagabond's life? for she is a vagabond, and an ill-tongued vagabond. Why do you provoke the girl by sich language, you double-distilled ould sthrap? you do nothin' but growl an' snarl, an' curse, an' pray—ay, pray, from mornin' to night, in sich a way, that the very devil himself could not bear you, or live wid you. Begone out o' this, or I'll let her at you, an' I'll engage she'll give you what'll settle you.”
Nelly rose, and putting on her cloak went out.
“I'm goin',” she replied, looking at, and addressing the Prophet; “an' plaise God, before long I'll have the best wish o' my heart fulfilled, by seein' you hanged; but, until then, may my curse, an' the curse o' God light on you and pursue you. I know you have tould her everything, or she wouldn't act towards me as she has done of late.”
Sarah stood like the Pythoness, in a kind of savage beauty, with the knife firmly grasped in her hand.
“I'm glad she's gone,” she said; “but it's not her, father, that I ought to raise my hand against.”
“Who then, Sarah?” he asked, with something like surprise.
“You asked me,” she proceeded, “to assist in a plan to have Mave Sullivan carried off by young Dick o' the Grange—I'm now ready for anything, and I'll do it. This world, father, has nothing good or happy in it for me—now I'll be aquil to it; if it gives me nothing good, it'll get nothing out of me. I'll give it blow for blow; kindness, good fortune, if it was to happen—but it can't now—would soften me; but I know, I feel that ill-treatment, crosses, disappointments, an' want of all hope in this life, has made, an' will make me a devil—ay, an' oh! what a different girl I might be this day!”
“What has vexed you?” asked the father “for I see that something has.”
“Isn't it a cruel thing,” she proceeded, without seeming to have attended to him; “isn't it a cruel thing to think that every one you see about you has some happiness except yourself; an' that your heart is burstin', an' your brain burnin', an' no relief for you; no one point to turn to, for consolation—but everything dark and dismal, and fiery about you?”