“Honor,” said he, “here is Bodagh Buie’s son comin’ up to the house—­what on earth can bring the boy here?”

This was the first day on which his wife had been able to rise from her sick bed.  She was consequently feeble, and, physically speaking, capable of no domestic exertion.  Her mind, however, was firm as ever, and prompt as before her calamity to direct and overlook, in her own sweet and affectionate manner, whatever required her superintendence.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Fardorougha,” she replied.  “It can’t, I hope, be wid bad news—­they thravel fast enough—­an’ I’m sure the Bodagh’s son wouldn’t take pleasure in bein’ the first to tell them to us.”

“But what can bring him, Honor?  What on earth can bring the boy here now, that never stood undher our roof afore?”

“Three or four minutes, Fardorougha, will tell us.  Let us hope in God it isn’t bad.  Eh, Saver above, it wouldn’t be the death of his sister—­of Connor’s Oona!  No,” she added, “they wouldn’t send, much less come, to tell vis that; but sure we’ll hear it—­we’ll hear it; and may God give us stringth to hear it right, whether it’s good or bad!  Amin, Jasus, this day!”

She had hardly uttered the last words, when O’Brien entered.

“Young man,” said this superior woman, ’"it’s a poor welcome we can give you to a house of sorrow.”

“Ay,” said Fardorougha, “his mother an’ I’s here, but where is he?  Nine days from this; but it ’ill kill me—­it will—­it will.  Whin he’s taken from me, I don’t care how soon I folly him; God forgive me if it’s a sin to say so!”

“Fardorougha,” said his wife, in a tone of affectionate reproof, “remember what you promised me, an’, at all evints, you forget that Mr. O’Brien here may have his own troubles; I heard your sister was unwell.  Oh, how is she, poor thing?”

“I thank you, a great deal better; I will not deny but she heard a piece of intelligence this day, that has relieved her mind and taken a dead weight off her heart.”

Honor, with uncommon firmness and solemnity of manner, placed her hand upon his shoulder, and, looking him earnestly in the face, said,

“That news is about our son?”

“It is,” replied O’Brien, “and it’s good; his sentence is changed, and he is not to die.”

“Not to die!” shrieked the old man, starting up, and clapping his hands frantically—­“not to die! our son—­Connor, Connor—­not to be hanged—­not to be hanged!  Did you say that, son of O’Brien Buie, did you—­did you?”

“I did,” replied the other; “he will not suffer.”

“Now that’s God,” ejaculated Fardorougha, wildly; “that’s God an’ his mother’s prayers.  Boys,” he shrieked, “come here; come here, Biddy Nulty, come her; Connor’s not to die; he won’t suffer—­he won’t suffer!”

He was rushing wildly to the door, but Honor placed herself before him, and said, in that voice of calmness which is uniformly that of authority and power: