“I’ll hang P——­e—­I’ll hang him—­but if he gives me back my money, I’ll not touch him.  Who are you?”

“Father dear, I’m Connor, your own son, Connor.”

“I’ll marry you and Una, then.  I’ll settle all the villain robbed me of on you, and you’ll have every penny of it after my death.  Don’t be keepin’ me up, I can walk very well; ay, an’ I’m in right good spirits.  Sure, the money’s got, Connor—­got back every skilleen of it.  Ha, ha, ha, God be praised!  God be praised!  We’ve a right to be thankful—­the world isn’t so bad afther all.”

“Father, will you try and rest?”

“It’s not bad, afther all—­I won’t starve, as I thought I would, now that the arrighad is got back from the villain.  Ha, ha, ha, it’s great, Connor, ahagur!”

“What is it, father dear.”

“Connor, sing me a song—­my heart’s up—­it’s light—­arn’t you glad?—­sing me a song.”

“If you’ll sleep first, father dear.”

“The Uligone, Connor, or Shuilagra, or the Trougha—­for, avourneen, avourneen, there must be sorrow in it, for my heart’s low, and your mother’s heart’s in sorrow, an’ she’s lyin’ far from us, an’ her boy’s not near her, an’ her heart’s sore, sore, and her head achin’, bekase her boy’s far from her, and she can’t come to him!”

The boy, whose noble fortitude was unshaken during the formidable trial it had encountered in the course of that day, now felt overcome by this simple allusion to his mother’s love.  He threw his arms about his father’s neck, and, placing his head upon his bosom, wept aloud for many, many minutes.

“Hiisth, Connor, husth, asthore—­what makes you cry?  Sure, all ’ill be right now that we’ve got back the money.  Eh?  Ha, ha, ha, it’s great luck, Connor, isn’t it great?  An’ you’ll have it, you an’ Una, afther my death—­for I won’t starve for e’er a one o’ yees.”

“Father, father, I wish you would rest.”

“Well, I will, avick, I will—­bring me to bed—­you’ll sleep in your own bed to-night.  Your poor mother’s head hasn’t been off of the place where your own lay, Connor.  No, indeed; her heart’s low—­it’s breakin’—­it’s breakin’—­but she won’t let anybody make your bed but herself.  Oh, the mother’s love, Connor—­that mother’s love, that mother’s love—­but, Connor—­”

“Well, father, dear.”

“Isn’t there something wrong, avick:  isn’t there something not right, somehow?”

This question occasioned the son to feel as if his heart would literally burst to pieces, especially when he considered the circumstances under which the old man put it.  Indeed, there was something so transcendently appalling in his intoxication, and in the wild but affecting tone of his conversation, that, when joined to his pallid and spectral appearance, it gave a character, for the time being, of a mood that struck the heart with an image more frightful than that of madness itself.