“In one thing I’ll be advised by you, an’ that is, I’ll go to my knees and pray to God to set my heart right if it’s wrong.  I feel strange—­strange, Nogher—­happy, an’ not happy.”

“You needn’t go to your knees at all,” replied Nogher, “if you give us the whiskey; or if you do pray, be in earnest, that your heart may be inclined to do it.”

“You desarve none for them words,” said Fardorougha, who felt that Nogher’s buffoonery jarred upon the better feelings that were rising within him—­“you desarve none, an’ you’ll get none—­for the present at laste, an’ I’m only a fool for spaking to you.”

He then retired to the upper part of the kiln, where, in a dark corner, he knelt with a troubled heart, and prayed to God.

We doubt not but such readers as possess feeling will perceive that Fardorougha was not only an object at this particular period of much interest, but also entitled to sincere sympathy.  Few men in his circumstances could or probably would so earnestly struggle with a predominant passion as he did, though without education, or such a knowledge of the world as might enable him, by any observation of the human heart in others, to understand the workings in his own.  He had not been ten minutes at prayer when the voice of his female servant was heard in loud and exulting tones, calling out, ere she approached the kiln itself—­

“Fardorougha, ca woul thu?—­Where’s my footin’, masther?  Where’s my arles?—­Come in—­come in, you’re a waitin’ to kiss your son—­the misthress is dyin’ till you kiss our son.”

The last words were uttered as she entered the kiln.

“Dyin’!” he repeated—­“the misthress dyin’—­oh Susy, let a thousand childre go before her—­dyin’! did you say dyin’?”

“Ay did I, an’ it’s truth too; but it’s wid joy she’s dyin’ to see you kiss one of the purtiest young boys in all the barony of Lisnamona—­myself’s over head and ears in love wid him already.”

He gave a rapid glance upwards, so much so that it was scarcely perceptible, and immediately accompanied her into the house.  The child, in the meantime, had been dressed, and lay on its mother’s arm in the bed when its father entered.  He approached the bedside and glanced at it—­then at the mother who lay smiling beside it—­she extended her hand to him, whilst the soft, sweet tears of delight ran quietly down her cheeks.  When he seized her hand he stooped to kiss her, but she put up her other hand and said—­

“No, no, you must kiss him first.”

[Illustration:  Page 191—­ Imprinted the father’s first kiss]

He instantly stooped over the babe, took it in his arms, looked long and earnestly upon it, put it up near him, again gave it a long, intense gaze, after which he raised its little mouth to his own, and then imprinted the father’s first kiss upon the fragrant lips of his beloved first-born.  Having gently deposited the precious babe upon its mother’s arm, he caught her hand and imprinted upon her lips a kiss;—­but to those who understand it, we need not describe it—­to those who cannot, we could give no adequate notion of that which we are able in no other way to describe than by saying that it would seem as if the condensed enjoyment of a whole life were concentrated into that embrace of the child and mother.