"Mother, dear, I'm afraid you're bringing a heavy heart to a house of sorrow!"

"A light heart, dear Mary--a light and a grateful heart. Your father, _acushla machree_--your father, my dear, unhappy Tom, is not a murderer."

The girl had one arm around her brother's neck, but she instinctively raised the other, as if in ecstatic delight, but in a moment she dropped it again, and said sorrowfully--

"Ay; but, mother dear, didn't he say himself he was guilty?"

"He thought so, dear; but it was only a rash blow; and oh, how many a deadly accident has come from harsh blows! The man was not killed at all, dear Mary, but is alive and well, and was in the court-house this day. Oh! what do we not owe to a good G.o.d for His mercy towards us all?

Tom, dear, I am glad to see you at home; you must not go out again."

"Oh, mother dear," said his sister, kissing him, and bursting into tears, "Tom's dying!"

"What's this?" exclaimed his mother--"death's in my boy's face!"

He raised his head gently, and, looking at her, replied, with a faint smile--

"No, mother, I will not go out any more; I will be good at last--it's time for me."

At this moment old Dalton and the rest of the family entered the house, but were not surprised at finding Mary and her mother in tears; for they supposed, naturally enough, that the tears were tears of joy for the old man's acquittal. Mrs. Dalton raised her hand to enjoin silence; and then, pointing to her son, said--

"We must keep quiet for a little."

They all looked upon the young man, and saw, that death, immediate death, was stamped upon his features, gleamed wildly out of his eyes, and spoke in his feeble and hollow voice.

"Father," said he, "let me kiss you, or come and kiss me. Thank G.o.d for what has happened this day. Father," he added, looking up into the old man's face, with an expression of unutterable sorrow and affection--"father, I know I was wild; but I will be wild no more. I was wicked, too; but I will be wicked no more. There, is an end now to all my follies and all my crimes; an' I hope--I hope that G.o.d will have mercy upon me, an' forgive me."

The tears rained fast upon his pale face from the old man's eyes, as he exclaimed--

"He will have mercy upon you, my darlin' son; look to Him. I know, darlin', that whatever crimes or follies you committed, you are sorry for them, an' G.o.d will forgive you."

"I am," he replied; "kiss me all of you; my sight is gettin' wake, an'

my tongue isn't isn't so strong as it was."

One after one they all kissed him, and as each knew that this tender and sorrowful, embrace must be the last that should ever pa.s.s between them, it is impossible adequately to describe the scene which then took place.

"I have a request to make," he added, feebly; "an' it is, that I may sleep with Peggy and our baby. Maybe I'm not worthy of that; but still I'd like it, an' my heart's upon it; an' I think she would like it, too."

"It can be done, an' we'll do it," replied his mother; "we'll do it my darlin' boy--my son, my son, we'll do it."

"Don't you all forgive me--forgive me--everything?"

They could only, for some time, reply by their tears; but at length they did reply, and he seemed satisfied.

"Now," said he, "there was an ould Irish air that Peggy used to sing for me--I thought I heard her often singin' it of late--did I?"

"I suppose so, darlin'," replied his mother; "I suppose you did."

"Mary, here," he proceeded, "sings it; I would like to hear it before I go; it's the air of _Gra Gal Machree_."

"Before you go, _alanna!_" exclaimed his father, pressing him tenderly to his breast. "Oh! but they're bitther words to us, my darlin' an' my lovin' boy. But the air, Mary, darlin', strive an' sing it for him as well as you can."

It was a trying task for the affectionate girl, who, however, so far overcame her grief, as to be able to sing it with the very pathos of nature itself.

"Ay," said he, as she proceeded, "that's it--that's what Peggy used to sing for me, bekaise she knew I liked it."

Tender and full of sorrow were the notes as they came from the innocent lips of that affectionate sister. Her task, however, was soon over; for scarcely had she concluded the air, when her poor brother's ears and heart were closed to the melody and affection it breathed, forever.

"I know," said she, with tears, "that there's one thing will give comfort to you all respecting poor Tom. Peter Rafferty, who helped him home, seein' the dyin' state he was in, went over to the Car, and brought one of Father Hanratty's curates to him, so that he didn't depart without resaving the rites of the Church, thank G.o.d!"

This took the sting of bitterness out of their grief, and infused into it a spirit that soothed their hearts, and sustained them by that consolation which the influence of religion and its ordinances, in the hour of death and sorrow, never fail to give to an Irish family.

Old Dalton's sleep was sound that night; and when he awoke the next morning the first voice he heard was that of our friend Toddy Mack, which, despite of the loss they had sustained, and its consequent sorrow, diffused among them a spirit of cheerfulness and contentment.

"You have no raison," said he, "to fly in the face of G.o.d--I don't mane you, Mrs. Dalton--but these youngsters. If what I heard is thrue that that poor boy never was himself since the girl died, it was a mercy for G.o.d to take him; and afther all He is a betther judge of what's fit for us than we ourselves. Bounce, now, Mr. Dalton; you have little time to lose. I want you to come wid me to the agent, Mr. Travers. He wishes, I think, to see yourself, for he says he has heard a good account o' you, an' I promised to bring you. If we're there about two o'clock we'll hit the time purty close."

"What can he want with him, do you think?" asked Mrs. Dalton.

"Dear knows--fifty things--maybe to stand for one of his childhre--or--but, ah! forgive me--I could be merry anywhere else; but here--here--forgive me, Mrs. Dalton."

In a short time Dalton and he mounted a car which Toddy had brought with him, and started for the office of Mr. Travers.

While they are on their way, we shall return to our friend, young d.i.c.k, who was left to trudge home from the Grey Stone on the night set apart for the abduction of Mave Sullivan. Hanlon, or Magennis, as we ought now to call him, having by his shrewdness, and Rody Duncan's loose manner of talking, succeeded in preventing the burglarious attack upon his master's house, was a good deal surprised at young d.i.c.k's quick return, for he had not expected him at all that night. The appearance of the young gentleman was calculated to excite impressions of rather a serio-comic character.

"Hanlon," said he, "is all right?--every man at his post?"

"All right, sir; but I did not expect you back so soon. Whatever you've been engaged on to-night is a saicret you've kep' me out of."

"D--e, I was afraid of you, Hanlon--you were too honest for what I was about to-night. You wouldn't have stood it--I probed you on it once before, and you winced."

"Well, sir, I a.s.sure you I don't wish to know what it is."

"Why, as the whole thing has failed there, can be no great secret in it now. The old Prophet hoaxed me cursedly to-night. It was arranged between us that he should carry off Sullivan's handsome daughter for me--and what does the mercenary old scoundrel do but put his own in her place, with a view of imposing her on me."

"Faith, an' of the two she is thought to be the finest an' handsomest girl; but, my G.o.d! how could he do what you say, an' his daughter sick o' the typhus?"

"There's some d--d puzzle about it, I grant--he seemed puzzled--his daughter-seemed sick, sure enough--and I am sick. Hanlon, I fear I've caught the typhus from her--I can think of nothing else."

"Go to bed, sir; I tould you as you went out that you had taken rather too much. You've been disappointed, an' you're vexed;--that's what ails you; but go to bed, an' you'll sleep it off."

"Yes, I must. In a day or two it's arranged that I and Travers are to settle about the leases, and I must meet that worthy gentleman with a clear head."

"Is Darby Skinadre, sir, to have Dalton's farm?"

"Why, I've pocketed a hundred of his money for it, an' I think he ought.

However, all this part of the property is out of lease, and you know we can neither do nor say anything till we get the new leases."

"Oh, yes, you can, sir," replied Hanlon, laughing; "it's clear you can _do_ at any rate."