“God sees my heart this day,” she replied—­and she spoke with difficulty—­“that I could and would have travelled over the world; borne joy and sorrow, hardship and distress—­good fortune and bad—­all happily, if you had been by my side—­if you had not been taken from me.  Oh, Connor, Connor, you may well pity your Una—­for yours I am and was—­another’s I never will be.  You are entering into scenes that will relieve you by their novelty—­that will force you to think of other things and of other persons than those you’ve left behind you; but oh, what Can I look upon that will not fill my heart with despair and sorrow, by reminding me of you and your affection?”

“Fareer gair,” exclaimed the mother, speaking involuntarily aloud, and interrupting her own words with sobs of bitter anguish—­“Fareer gair, ma colleen dhas, but that’s the heavy truth with us all.  Oh, the ould man—­the ould man’s heart will break all out, when he looks upon the place, an’ everything else that our boy left behind him.”

“Dear Una,” said Connor, “you know that we’re partin’ now forever.”

“My breaking heart tells me that,” she replied.  “I would give the wealth of the world that it was not so—­I would—­I would.”

“Listen to me, my own life.  You must not let love for me lie so heavy upon your heart.  Go out and keep your mind employed upon other thoughts—­by degrees you’ll forget—­no, I don’t think you could altogether forget me—­me—­the first, Una, you ever loved.”

“And the last, Connor—­the last I ever will love.”

“No, no.  In the presence of my lovin’ mother I say that you must not think that way.  Time will pass, my own Una, an’ you will yet be happy with some other.  You’re very young; an’, as I said, time will wear me by degrees out of your mimory.”—­

Una broke hastily from his embrace, for she lay upon his breast all this time—­

“Do you think so, Connor O’Donovan?” she exclaimed; but on looking into his face, and reading the history of deep—­seated sorrow which appeared there so legible, she again “fled to him and wept.”

“Oh, no,” she continued, “I cannot quarrel with you now; but you do the heart of your own Una injustice, if you think it could ever feel happiness with another.  Already I have my mother’s consent to enter a convent—­and to enter a convent is my fixed determination.”

“Oh, mother,” said Connor, “How will I lave this blessed girl? how will I part with her?”

Honor rose up, and, by two or three simple words, disclosed more forcibly, more touchingly, than any direct exhibition of grief could have done, the inexpressible power of the misery she felt at this eternal separation from her only boy.  She seized Una’s two hands, and, kissing her lips, said, in tones of the most heart—­rending pathos—­

“Oh, Una, Una, pity me—­I am his mother!”

Una threw herself into her arms, and sobbed out—­

“Yes, and mine.”