“Connor,” said the miser, “I had great luck yestherday.  You remember Antony Cusack, that ran away from me wid seventy-three pounds fifteen shillin’s an’ nine pence, now betther than nine years ago.  Many a curse he had from me for his roguery; but somehow, it seems he only thruv under them.  His son Andy called on me yestherday mornin’ an’ paid me to the last farden, inthrest an’ all.  Wasn’t I in luck?”

“It was very fortunate, father, an’ I’m glad of it”

“It was, indeed, the hoighth o’ luck.  Now, Connor, you think one thing, an’ that is, that; we’re partin’ forever, an’ that we’ll never see one another till we meet in the next world.  Isn’t that what you think?—­eh, Connor?”

“It’s hard to tell what may happen, father.  We may see one another even in this; stranger things have been brought about.”

“I tell you, Connor, we’ll meet agin; I have made out a plan in my own head for that; but the luckiest of all was the money yestherday.”

“What is the plan, father?”

“Don’t ax me, avick, bekase it’s betther for you not to know it.  I may be disappointed, but it’s not likely aither; still it ‘ud be risin’ expectations in you, an’ if it didn’t come to pass, you’d only be more unhappy; an’ you know, Connor darlin’, I wouldn’t wish to be the manes of making your poor heart sore for one minute.  God knows the same young heart has suffered enough, an’ more than it ought to suffer.  Connor?”

“Well, father?”

“Keep up your spirits, darlin’, don’t be at all cast down, I tell you.”

The old man caught his son’s hands ere he spoke, and uttered these words with a voice of such tenderness and affection, that Connor, on seeing him assume the office of comforter, contrary to all he had expected, felt himself more deeply touched than if his father had fallen, as was his wont, into all the impotent violence of grief.

“It was only comin’ here to-day, Connor, that I thought of this plan; but I wish to goodness your poor mother knew it, for thin, maybe she’d let me mintion it to you.”

“If it would make me any way unhappy,” replied Connor, “I’d rather not hear it; only, whatever it is, father, if it’s against my dear mother’s wishes, don’t put it in practice.”

“I couldn’t, Connor, widout her consint, barrin’ we’d—­but there’s no us in that; only keep up your spirits, Connor dear.  Still I’m glad it came into my head, this plan; for if I thought that I’d never see you agin, I wouldn’t know how to part wid you; my heart ’ud fairly break, or my head ’ud get light.  Now, won’t you promise me not to fret, acushla machree—­an’ to keep your heart up, an’ your spirits?”

“I’ll fret as little as I can, father.  You know there’s not much pleasure in frettin’, an’ that no one would fret if they could avoid it; but will you promise me, my dear father, to be guided an’ advised, in whatever you do, or intend to do, by my mother—­my blessed mother?”