that if ever any evil did come to me, if I should die without doin'
what's in my heart to do, you would know, and would tell him if you ever
saw him, how I remembered, and kept rememberin' him always, till my heart
got sick with waitin', and I came to find him far across the seas."

"Tell me your tale, my child," he patiently said. Her eyes were on the
candle in the window questioningly. "It is for the trooper--to guide
him," the other remarked. "'Tis past time that he should be here. When
you are able you can go with him to the Fort. You will be better cared
for there, and will be among women."

"The man--the man who was kind to me--I wish I knew of him," she said.

"I am waiting for your story, my child. Speak of your trouble, whether
it be of the mind and body, or of the soul."

"You shall judge if it be of the soul," she answered.

"I come from far away. I lived in old Donegal since the day that I was
born there, and I had a lover, as brave and true a lad as ever trod the
world. But sorrow came. One night at Farcalladen Rise there was a crack
of arms and a clatter of fleeing hoofs, and he that I loved came to me
and said a quick word of partin', and with a kiss--it's burnin' on my
lips yet--askin' pardon, father, for speech of this to you--and he was
gone, an outlaw, to Australia. For a time word came from him. Then I
was taken ill and couldn't answer his letters, and a cousin of my own,
who had tried to win my love, did a wicked thing. He wrote a letter to
him and told him I was dyin', and that there was no use of farther words
from him. And never again did word come to me from him. But I waited,
my heart sick with longin' and full of hate for the memory of the man