Only think," she proceeded, with a fresh burst of sorrow, "oh, only think, father, of sich a woman bein' forced to this!" "May the Lord pity her an' them, this woeful day!" exclaimed Sullivan.
"Now, father," proceeded Mave; "I know--oh who knows better or so well--what a good an' a kind an' a forgivin' heart you have; an' I know that even in spite of the feelin' that was, and maybe is, upon your mind against them, you'll grant me my wish in what I'm goin' to ask." "What is it then ?--let me hear it." "It's this: you know that here, in our family I can do nothing to help ourselves--that is, there is nothing for me to do--an' I feel the time hang heavy on my hands.

I have been thinkin', father dear, of this miserable state the poor Daltons is in, without any one to attend them in their sickness--to say a kind word to them, or to hand them even a drink of clean water, if they wanted it.

Them that hasn't got the fever yet, won't go near them for fear of catchin' it.

What, then, will become of them?
There they are, without the face, or hand, or voice of kindness about them.

Oh, what on God's blessed earth will become of them?
They may die an' they must die, for want of care and assistance." "But sure that's not our fault, dear Mave; we can't help them." "We can, father--an' we must; for if we don't they'll die.