This was spoken in a tone of respect and sorrow at once impressive and affectionate.  His fine features were touched with something beyond sadness or regret, and, as the tears stood in his eyes, it was easy to see that he felt much more deeply for his father’s want of principle than for anything connected with his own hopes and prospects.  In fact, the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks were the tears of shame and sorrow for a parent who could thus school him to an act of such unparalleled baseness.  As it was, the genius of the miser felt rebuked by the natural delicacy and honor of his son; the old man therefore shrunk back abashed, confused, and moved at the words which he had heard—­simple and inoffensive though they were.

“Fardorougha,” said the wife, wiping her eyes, that were kindling into indignation, “we’re now married goin’ an—­”

“I think, mother,” said Connor, “the less we say about it now the better—­with my own good will I’ll never speak on the subject.”

“You’re right, avourneen,” replied the mother; “you’re right; I’ll say nothing—­God sees it’s no use.”

“What would you have me do?” said the old man, rising and walking’ about in unusual distress and agitation; “you don’t know me—­I can’t do it—­I cant do it.  You say, Honor, I don’t care about him—­I’d give him my blood—­I’d give him my blood to save a hair of his head.  My life an’ happiness depinds on him; but who knows how he an’ his wife might mismanage that money if they got it—­both young an’ foolish?  It wasn’t for nothing it came into my mind what I’m afeard will happen to me yet.”

“And what was that, Fardorougha?” asked the wife.

“Sich foreknowledge doesn’t come for nothing, Honor.  I’ve had it an’ felt it hangin’ over me this many a long day, that I’d come to starvation yit; an’ I see, that if you force me to do as you wish, that it ’ill happen.  I’m as sure of it as that I stand before you.  I’m an unfortunate man wid sich a fate before me; an’ yet I’d shed my blood for my boy—­I would, an’ he ought to know that I would; but he wouldn’t ax me to starve for him—­would you, Connor, avick machree, would you ax your father to starve?  I’m unhappy—­unhappy—­an’ my heart’s breakin’!”

The old man’s voice failed him as he uttered the last words; for the conflict which he felt evidently convulsed his whole frame.  He wiped his eyes, and, again sitting down, he wept bitterly and in silence, for many minutes.

A look of surprise, compassion, and deep distress passed between Connor and his mother.  The latter also was very much affected, and said,

“Fardorougha, dear, maybe I spake sometimes too cross to you; but if I do, God above knows it’s not that I bear you ill will, but bekase I’m troubled about poor Connor.  But I hope I won’t spake angry to you again; at all events, if I do, renumber it’s only the mother pladin’ for her son—­the only son an’ child that God was plazed to sind her.”