“What’s the use of thinkin’ about sich things?  Lose him! why would I lose him?  I couldn’t lose him—­I’d as soon lose my own life—­I’d rather be dead at wanst than lose him.”

“God knows your love for him is a quare love, Fardorougha,” rejoined the wife; “you wouldn’t give him a guinea if it ’ud save his life, or allow him even a few shillings now an’ then, for pocket-money, that he might be aquil to other young boys like him.”

“No use, no use in that, except to bring him into drink an’ other bad habits; a bad way, Honora, of showin’ one’s love for him.  If you had your will you’d spoil him; I’m keepin’ whatsomever little shillin’s we’ve scraped together to settle him dacently in life; but, indeed, that’s time enough yet; he’s too young to marry for some years to come, barrin’ he got a fortune.”

“Well, one thing, Fardorougha, if ever two people were blessed in a good son, praise be God we are that!”

“We are, Honor, we are; there’s not his aquil in the parish—­achora machree that he is.  When I’m gone he’ll know what I’ve done for him.”

“Whin you’re gone; why, Saver of arth, sure you wouldn’t keep him out of his——­ husth!——­here he is, God be thanked! poor boy he’s safe.  Oh, thin, vich no Hoiah, Connor jewel, were you out undher this terrible night?”

“Connor, avich machree,” added the father, “you’re lost!  My hand to you, if he’s worth three hapuns; sthrip an’ throw my Cothamore about you, an’ draw in to the fire; you’re fairly lost.”

“I’m worth two lost people yet,” said Connor, smiling; “mother, did you ever see a pleasanter night?”

“Pleasant, Connor, darlin’!  Oh thin it’s you may say so, I’m sure!”

“Father, you’re a worthy—­only your Cothamore’s too scimpt for me.  Faith, mother, although you think I’m jokin’, the devil a one o’ me is; a pleasanter night—­a happier night I never spent.  Father, you ought to be proud o’ me, an’ stretch out a bit with the cash; faith, I’m nothin’ else than a fine handsome young fellow.”

“Be me soul an’ he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you’re in arnest or not,” observed the mother, “an’ to stretch out wid the arrighad too if you want it.”

“Folly on, Connor, folly on! your mother’ll back you, I’ll go bail, say what you will; but sure you know all I have must be yours yet, acushla.”

Connor now sat down, and his mother stirred up the fire, on which she placed additional fuel.  After a little time his manner changed, and a shade of deep gloom fell upon his manly and handsome features.  “I don’t know,” he at length proceeded, “that, as we three are here together, I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me to-night.”

“Why, what has happened you, Connor?” said the mother alarmed; “plase God, no harm, I hope.”

“Who else,” added the father, “would you be guided by, if not by your mother an’ myself?”