“No,” she added, with her arms tenderly about him, and her streaming eyes fixed with a wild and mournful look of despair upon his face; “no, he is in his loving mother’s arms, the boy that never gave to his father or me a harsh word or a sore heart!  Long were we lookin’ for him, an’ little did we think it was for this heavy fate that the goodness of God sent him to us!  Oh, many a look of lovin’ affection, many a happy heart did he give us!  Many a time Connor, avillish, did I hang over your cradle, and draw out to myself the happiness and the good that I hoped was before you.  You wor too good—­too good, I doubt—­to be long in such a world as this, an’ no wondher that the heart of the fair young colleen, the heart of the Colleen dhas dhun should rest upon you and love you; for who ever knew you that didn’t?  Isn’t there enough, King of heaven! enough of the bad an’ the wicked in this world for the law to punish, an’ not to take the innocent—­not to take away from us the only one—­the only one—­I can’t—­I can’t—­but if they do—­Connor—­if they do, your lovin’ mother will die wid you!”

The stern officers of justice wiped their eyes, and were proceeding to afford such consolation as they could, when Fardorougha, who had sat down after having made way for Honor to recline on the bosom of their son, now rose, and seizing the breast of his coat, was about to speak, but ere he could utter a word he tottered, and, would have instantly fallen, had not Connor caught him in his arms.  This served for a moment to divert the mother’s grief, and to draw her attention from the son to the husband, who was now insensible.  He was carried to the door by Connor; but when they attempted to lay him in a recumbent posture, it was found almost impossible to unclasp the deathlike grip which he held of the coat.  His haggard face was shrunk and collapsed; the individual features sharp and thin, but earnest and stamped with traces of alarm; his brows, too, which were slightly knit, gave to his whole countenance a character of keen and painful determination.  But that which struck those who were present, most, was the unyielding grasp with which he clung even in his insensibility to the person of Connor.

If not an affecting sight, it was one at least strongly indicative of the intractable and indurated attachment which put itself forth with such vague and illusive energy on behalf of his son.  At length he recovered, and on opening his eyes he fixed them with a long look of pain and distraction upon the boy’s countenance.

“Father,” said Connor, “don’t be cast down—­you need not—­and you ought not to be so much disheartened—­do you feel better?”

When the father heard his voice he smiled; yes—­his shrunk, pale, withered face was lit up by a wild, indescribable ecstasy, whose startling expression waa borrowed, one would think, as much from the light of insanity as from that of returning consciousness.  He sucked in his thin cheeks, smacked his parched, skinny lips, and with difficulty called for drink.  Having swallowed a little water, he looked round him with more composure, and inquired—­