“Father,” said Connor, with a beating heart, “for Heaven’s sake, what news—­what tidings?  I trust in God it’s good.”

“They have no bowels, Connor—­they have no bowels, thim O’Briens.”

“Then you didn’t succeed.”

“The father’s as great a bodagh as him he was called after—­they’re a bad pack—­an’ you mustn’t think of any one belongin’to them.”

“But tell us, man dear,” said the wife, “what passed—­let us know it all.”

“Why, they would do nothin’—­they wouldn’t hear of it.  I went on my knees to them—­ay, to every one of them, barrin’ the colleen herself; but it was all no use—­it’s to be no match.”

“And why, father, did you go on your knees to any of them,” said Connor; “I’m sorry you did that.”

“I did it on your account, Connor, an’ I’d do it again on your account, poor boy.”

“Well, well, it can’t be helped.”

“But tell me, Fardorougha,” inquired Honor, “was any of the fault your own—­what did you offer to do for Connor?”

“Let me alone,” said he, peevishly; “I won’t be cross-questioned about it.  My heart’s broke among you all—­what did I offer to do for Connor?  The match is knocked up, I tell you—­and it must be knocked up.  Connor’s young, an’ it’ll be time enough for him to marry this seven years to come.”

As he said this, the fire of avarice blazed in his eyes, and he looked angrily at Honor, then at the son; but, while contemplating the latter, his countenance changed from anger to sorrow, and from sorrow to a mild and serene expression of affection.

“Connor, avick,” said he, “Connor, sure you’ll not blame me in this business? sure you won’t blame your poor, heart—­broken father, let thim say what they will, sure you won’t, avilish?”

“Don’t fret on my account, father,” said the sonj “why should I blame you?  God knows you’re strivin’ to do what you would wish for me.”

“No, Honor, I know he wouldn’t; no,” he shouted, leaping up, “he wouldn’t make a saicrefize o’ me!  Connor, save me, save me,” he shrieked, throwing his arms about his neck; “save me; my heart’s breakin’—­somethin’s tearin’ me different ways inside; I can cry, you see; I can cry, but I’m still as hard as a stone; it’s terrible this I’m sufferin’—­terrible all out for a weak ould man like me.  Oh, Connor, avick, what will I do?  Honor, achora, what ‘ill become o’ me—­ainn’t I strugglin’, strugglin’ against it, whatever it is; don’t yees pity me?  Don’t ye, avick machree, don’t ye, Honor?  Oh, don’t yees pity me?”

“God pity you!” said the wife, bursting into tears; “what will become of you?  Pray to God, Fardorougha, pray to Him.  No one alive can change your heart but God.  I wint to the priest to-day, to get two masses said to turn your heart from that cursed money.  I didn’t intind to tell you, but I do, bekase it’s your duty to pray now above all times, an’ to back the priest as well as you can.”