“I think you're both mad,” replied Donnel. “Did I say that I was a murdherer? Why didn't you hear me out?”
“You needn't,” returned Nelly; “I knew it since yestherday mornin'.”
“So you think,” he replied, “an' it's but nathural you should, I was at the place this day, and seen where you dug the Casharrawan. I have been strugglin' for years to keep this saicret, an' now it must come out; but I'm not a murdherer.”
“What saicret, father, if you're not a murdherer?” asked Sarah; “what saicret; but there is not murder on you; do you say that?”
“I do say it; there's neither blood nor murdher on my head! but I know who the murdherer is, an' I can keep the saicret no longer!”
Sarah laughed, and her eyes sparkled up with singular vividness. “That'll do,” she exclaimed; “that'll do; all's right now; you're not a murdherer, you killed no man, aither in cowld blood or otherwise; ha! ha! you're a good father; you're a good father; I forgive you all now, all you ever did.”
Nelly stood contemplating her husband with a serious, firm, but dissatisfied look; her chin was supported upon her forefinger and thumb; and instead of seeming relieved by the disclosure she had just heard, which exonerated him from the charge of blood, she still kept her eyes riveted upon him with a stern and incredulous aspect.
“Spake out, then,” she observed coolly, “an' tell us all, for I am not convinced.”
Sarah looked as if she would have sprang at her.
“You are not convinced,” she exclaimed; “you are not convinced! Do you think he'd tell a lie on such a subject as this?” But no sooner had she uttered the words than she started as if seized by a spasm. “Ah, father,” she exclaimed, “it's now your want of truth comes against you; but still, still I believe you.”