The morning after the trial, Fardorougha was up as early as usual, but his grief was nearly as vehement and frantic as on the preceding night.  It was observed, however—­such is the power of sorrow to humanize and create sympathy in the heart—­that, when he arose, instead of peevishly and weakly obtruding his grief and care upon those about him, as he was wont to do, he now kept aloof from the room in which Honor slept, from an apprehension of disturbing her repose—­a fact which none who knew his previous selfishness would have believed, had he not himself expressed in strong terms a fear of awakening her.  Nor did this new trait of his character escape the observation of his own servants, especially of his honest monitor, Nogher M’Cormick.

“Well, well,” exclaimed this rustic philosopher; “see what God’s affliction does.  Faith, it has brought Fardorougha to feel a trifle for others, as well as for himself.  Who knows, begad, but it may take the millstone out of his heart yet; and if it does, my word to you, he may thank his wife, undher God, for it.”

Before leaving home that morning to see his son, he found with deep regret that Honor’s illness had been so much increased by the events of the preceding day, that she could not leave her bed.  And now, for the first time, a thought, loaded with double anguish, struck upon his heart.

“Saver of earth!” he exclaimed, “what would become of me if both should go and lave me alone?  God of heaven, alone!  Ay, ay,” he continued, “I see it.  I see how asily God might make my situation still worse than I thought it could be.  Oh God, forgive me my sins; and may God soften my heart!  Amin!”

He then went to see his wife ere he set out for his unhappy son; and it was with much satisfaction that Honor observed a changed and chastened tone in his manner, which she had never, except for a moment at the birth of his child, noticed before.  Not that his grief was much lessened, but it was more rational, and altogether free from the violence and impiety which had characterized it when he awoke from his intoxication.

“Honor,” said he, “how do you find yourself this mornin’, alanna?  They tell me you’re worse than you Wor yesterday.”

“Indeed, I’m wake enough,” she replied, “and very much bate down, Fardorougha; but you know it’s not our own stringth at any time that we’re to depend upon, but God’s.  I’m not willing to attempt anything beyant my power at present.  My seeing him now would do neither of us any good, and might do me a great dale o’ harm.  I must see him, to be sure, and I’ll strive, plase God, to gather up a little strength for that.”

“My heart’s breakin’, Honor, and I’m beginnin’ to see that I’ve acted a bad part to both of you all along.  I feel it, indeed; and if it was the will of God, I didn’t care if—­”

“Whisht, accushla, whisht—­sich talk as that’s not right.  Think, Fardorougha, whether you acted a bad part towards God or not, and never heed us; an’ think, too, dear, whether you acted a bad or a good part towards the poor, an’ them that was in distress and hardship, an’ that came to you for relief; they were your fellow-crathers, Fardorougha, at all evints.  Think of these things I’m sayin, and never heed us.  You know that Connor and I forgive you, but you arn’t so sure whether God and them will.”