“How did I come home I say, Oh tell me Honor, was I out of my wits?”

“You fainted,” she replied; they gave you whiskey to support you; an’ not bein’ accustomed to it, it got into your head.”

“Oh, Honor, our son, our son!” he replied; then, starting out of the bed in a fit of the wildest despair, he clasped his handy together, and shrieked out, “Oh, our son, our son, our son Connor!  Merciful Saviour, how will I name it? to be hanged by the neck!  Oh, Honor, Honor, don’t you pity me? don’t you pity me?  Mother of Heaven, this night?  That barradh dim, that barradh dim, put on for our boy, our innocent boy; who can undherstand it, Honor?  It’s not justice; there’s no justice in Heaven, or my son wouldn’t be murdhered, slaughtered down in the prime of his life, for no rason!  But no matther; let him be taken; only hear this:  if he goes, I’ll never,bend my knee to a single prayer while I’ve life; for it’s terrible, it’s cruel, ’tisn’t justice; nor do I care what becomes of me, either in this world or the other.  All I want, Honor, is to folly him as soon as I can; my hopes, my happiness, my life, my everything, is gone wid him; an’ what need I care, thin, what becomes of me?  I don’t, I don’t.”

The faces of the domestics grew pale as they heard, with silent horror, the incoherent blasphemies of the frantic miser; but his wife, whose eyes were riveted on him while he spoke, and paced, with a hurried step, up and down the room, felt at a loss whether to attribute his impiety to an attack of insanity, or to a temporary fever, brought on by his late sufferings and the intoxication of the preceding night.

“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Fardorougha,” she said calmly, placing her hand upon his shoulder, “are you sinsible that you’re this minute afther blasphemin’ your Creator?”

He gave her a quick, disturbed, and peevish look, but made no reply.  She then proceeded: 

“Fardorougha, I thought the loss of Connor the greatest punishment that could be put upon me; but I find I was mistaken.  I would rather see him dead to-morrow, wid, wid the rope about his neck, than to hear his father blasphemin’ the livin’ God!  Fardorougha, it’s clear that you’re not now fit to pray for yourself, but, in the name of our Saviour, I’ll go an’ pray for you.  In the mean time, go to bed; sleep will settle your head, and you will be better, I trust, in the mornin’.”

The calm solemnity of her manner awed him, notwithstanding the vehemence of his grief.  He stood and looked at her, with his hands tightly clasped, as she went to her son’s bedroom, in order to pray for him.  For a moment, he seemed abashed and stunned.  While she addressed him, he involuntarily ceased to utter those sounds of anguish which were neither shrieks nor groans, but something between both.  He theli resumed his pace, but with a more settled step, and for some minutes maintained perfect silence.