"But, Molly dear," replied Bessie,--"I _must_ always call you Molly,--I have done so little, after all. In thanking me, don't forget papa and your father Morton."

"I don't forget them, nor my Father in heaven either; but you, Bessie, were the first to pity me and try to help me, though I had done you wrong."

"Well, as for that, Molly," said Bessie, seriously, "perhaps G.o.d had more to do with that wild Christmas expedition of mine than anybody thought at the time. It seemed so rash and foolish. I have always thought that good policeman an angel, an Irish angel, in the rough, though he did not know it. I don't believe that angels and saints ever have a very high opinion of themselves, do you?"

This was the happiest summer of Molly's life,--it was also to prove the most memorable.

One afternoon, as she was returning from the village, down a quiet, shady lane, which led through her father's farm, she was suddenly confronted by the tyrant of her unhappy childhood, Patrick Magee. He was even a more wretched looking creature than of old,--shabbier, dirtier, with every mark of the most degrading vice. As he stepped from behind a hazel-bush, where he had been skulking, into her path, Molly gave an involuntary shriek, and shrank back from him in fear and aversion.

"Whist, darling!" he exclaimed in a wheedling tone. "Be aisy, just; it's not meself that will harm a hair of yer head. And sure this is not the way you should meet yer poor ould unfortunate father. Is this the kind of filial piety you 've larned from your grand friends?"

"I do not believe you _are_ my father," replied Molly, looking directly into his bleared eyes, that quailed under her gaze.

"Now, now, whoever heard the likes o' that?" began Patrick, with a shocked expression. "Denies her own father, that tiled and spint for her! Why, Molly dear, you are the image of me, barring the color of the hair, mine being a trifle foxy, while yourn is a darkish brown; and barring the lines of care and trouble on my brow,--the hard lines I 've had no child's hand to smooth away, the saints pity me!"

Hero Molly's soft heart was touched, and she asked, gently, "Where do you come from now? and what do you want of me?"

"Well, I came last from New York, when, after a power of trouble, I found out your whereabouts. My heart so cried out for my daughter and my darling boys. You see, for the five years past I 've been, so to speak, in retirement on the Hudson."

"Where?" asked Molly, bewildered.

"Why, in a quiet town called Sing Sing; but; faith! it's little singing I did there."

"Do you mean that you have been in the penitentiary?" said Molly, startled.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes. But you see it's a hard word to p.r.o.nounce, that same. I got into what gintlemen call 'difficulties,' pretty soon after my Biddy died, and my poor children was torn from my arms. Somehow, I had no heart to keep up a good character. I was what they call _desperate_; so I went into a gintleman's house one avening, without ringing the bell and sending up my card, as in my better days I should have done, you know. I went in head foremost, through a back window, and when I was coming out with a trifle of silver, the police nabbed me, and it was all up for a while with poor Pat Magee. Now what do I want with you? I want to know about my darling boys, of course. Are they living and respectable?"

"Yes," replied Molly; "they are well and doing well. I hear from them twice a year, and write to them oftener."

"Doing well, are they! but doing nothing for their poor ould father.

Ah, this is a hard world."

Molly could not refrain from saying, "They _used_ to think it so, but they don't now. They have good friends, comfortable homes, and are happy and industrious."

"_Industrious!_ and isn't it myself that taught them to be that same?

Niver did I spare the rod when they came home empty-handed from a day on the streets."

Molly made no reply, but tried to pa.s.s on. Again Patrick stopped her, and said, with a strange, cunning smile, "And so, miss, you don't believe I 'm your rale father."

"No," answered Molly, firmly. "I have always had indistinct recollections of a very different home from that wretched cellar in the Five Points, and of other parents than you and Mrs. Magee. _I believe you stole me when I was very young._"

"No, indade. I had nothing to do with it," replied Patrick, hastily.

"Then your wife did it?"

"Well, yes. You see, my dear, when I 'm fairly cornered, I scorns to lie. That same _was_ one of the little thaving operations of the late Mrs. Magee, Heaven rest her sowl!" said Patrick, rolling his eyes.

"O, then, for mercy's sake, tell me who and where are my parents!"

cried Molly, clasping her hands in an agony of entreaty.

"Softly, softly; bide a bit, my darling. Nothing is sold for nothing.

I can niver consint to blacken the memory of my poor departed Biddy without a consideration."

"What do you mean?"

"Pay me fifty dollars, and I 'll make a clane breast of it, and tell you all you want to know."

"But, Mr. Magee," cried Molly, in distress, "I have not so much money.

I have only a very few dollars of my own in the world; but I will promise to give it to you, and more too, as soon as I can earn it.

Only tell me."

"No, miss, I must be paid down. 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' If you have n't the money, belike your new governor, Mr.

Morton, would pay a trifle like that for the sake of getting rid of you."

"He _might_ advance it for me; though he is not rich, he is so good,"

rejoined Molly. "I would ask you to come up to the house and see, only he is away from home, and is not expected back till late in the evening. Please, _please_ tell me now, and trust me for your reward.

Indeed, indeed, I will pay you some time, and be your friend always."

"Your servant, miss," replied Patrick, with a mocking bow, "but I 'd rather not trust a fine lady as has just scorned an ould friend in reduced circ.u.mstances, who, if he is n't her father, sure it's no fault of his. Tell your Mr. Morton that I 'll call to-morrow morning, ready to arrange matters in a business-like, gintlemanly way. But mind, _no money, no sacret_. I 'll not have my family affairs paraded in the newspapers for nothing, and all Mrs. Magee's little wakenesses exposed, after she's left this wicked world, and the _crowner_ has set on her, and she's been dacently buried at the city's expinse, hard on to six years."

Molly reached home in a state of intense excitement, but, on relating her strange story, was soothed and cheered by Mrs. Morton's tender, motherly sympathy. Mr. Morton came home earlier than he was looked for, and was at once informed of the important revelation which Mr.

Magee proposed to make for a "consideration." Doubtful what course to pursue, he hurried into the village to consult with Molly's first friends, the Raeburns. The consequence of this consultation was, that the next morning, when Patrick Magee appeared at the farm-house, he was confronted, not alone by Mr. Morton, but by Mr. Raeburn and the sheriff of the county. Taking these as mere witnesses, however, he was not abashed, but greeted all with a jaunty air, and the old Irish expression, "The top of the morning to ye, gintlemen."

On Mr. Morton referring to the secret he had to reveal, he said, with the utmost a.s.surance, "Well, Mr. Morton, I 've slept on that same matter, and I 've concluded that I can't in conscience consint to blacken the memory of the late Mrs. Magee for less nor a _hundred dollars_. And sure, your honors, a rale live father and mother, rich and respectable, are chape at that, to say nothing of the reputation of a poor, hard-working woman, that's dead and gone, and can't defind herself."

"These, Mr. Magee, are the best terms you offer, then?" asked the farmer.

"Yes; but if you don't close the bargain immadiately, I may rise a trifle. I 've been too aisy, on account of poor Molly. My feelings are too much for me."

"Then, Mr. Sheriff," said Mr. Morton, "you must do your duty."

So Patrick Magee found himself again in the stern grasp of the law. He was taken to a magistrate's office for examination, but there he obstinately refused to reveal a word of the important secret, saying he would die first. So he was committed to the county jail, there to await his trial on a charge of kidnapping.

For more than a week the prisoner remained sullenly silent, while poor Molly suffered agonies of suspense, and her friends were fearful that for lack of sufficient evidence the villain might yet escape justice, carrying his secret with him.

But at last he yielded,--subdued, not by hard fare, hard words, or solitude, but by the mad thirst of the inebriate. Since leaving the penitentiary he had been drinking very hard, and now, being suddenly deprived of all stimulants, his spirits sunk, his strength and appet.i.te failed, and he was threatened with the terrible disease of the intemperate,--_delirium tremens_.

Being told by the doctor that he thought Magee must have some brandy, Mr. Raeburn paid a visit to the jail. He found the prisoner sitting on his narrow bed, looking haggard and ill, but as sullen as ever.

"Well, Magee," said Mr. Raeburn, pleasantly, "have you made up your mind to tell all you know of the parentage of that stolen child? You have confessed that you connived at, if you did not a.s.sist in the crime, and it may go hard with you at the trial."

Patrick replied, with a furious oath, "Niver a word more will I spake about the matter, if they hang me."

"If I will endeavor to get you discharged; if I will promise to give you some decent clothes, and to furnish you with easy and constant employment, will you tell?"

"No."

"If I will give you a gla.s.s of good brandy, will you tell?"