“Alley,” said he, “are you not my wife, and amn’t I your husband?  Whose hand should be upon me—­in what arms but yours should I die?  Alley, think of your own Felix—­oh, don’t let me pass altogether out of your memory an’ if you’d wear a lock of my hair (many a time you used to curl it over on my cheek, for you used to say it was the same shade as your own, and you used to compare them together), wear it for my sake, next your heart, and if ever you think of doin’ a wrong thing, look at it, and you’ll remember that Felix, who’s now in the dust, always desired you to pray for the Almighty’s grace, an’ trust to Him for strength against evil.  But where are you, asthore?  My eyes want a last look of you; I feel you—­ay, I feel you in my breakin’ heart, and sweet your presence in it, avourneen machree; but how is it that I cannot see you?  Oh, my wife, my young wife, my spotless wife, be with me—­near me!” He clasped her to his heart, as if while he held her there he thought it could not cease to beat; but in a moment, after one slight shudder, one closing pang, his grasp relaxed—­his head fell upon her bosom—­and he, Felix, who that morning stood up in the bloom of youth and manly beauty, with the cup of happiness touching his lips, was now a clod of the valley.  Half unconscious—­almost unbelieving that all could be over, she gently laid him down.  On looking into his face, her pale lips quivered; and as her mute wild gaze became fixed upon the body, slowly the desolating truth forced itself upon her heart.  She then sank upon her knees, and prayed to God that, if it were His will, and lawful for her in her misery to utter such a prayer, He would not part her in death from him who had been to her far dearer than all that life now contained—­without whom the world was now empty to her for ever.

Quietly and calmly she then arose, and but for the settled wretchedness of her look, the stillness of her spirit might have been mistaken for apathy.  Without resistance, without a tear, in the dry agony of burning grief she gently gave herself up to the guidance of those who wept, while they attempted to soothe her.  In reply to their attempts at consolation she only uttered one brief sentence in Irish.  “Oh,” said she, “God is good—­still, still, this was a dark day to Felix and to me!”

At the inquest which followed, there was no proof to criminate the wretched brother; nor, to speak truly, were the jury anxious to find any.  The man’s shrieking misery was more wild and frightful than death itself.  From “the Dark Day” until this on which I write, he has never been able to raise his heart or his countenance.  Home he never leaves, except when the pressure of business compels him; and when he does, in every instance he takes the most unfrequented paths and the loneliest by-roads, in order to avoid the face and eye of man.  Better, indeed, to encounter flood or fire, than to suffer what he has borne, when the malicious or coarse-minded have reproached him, in what we trust, is his repentance, with his great affliction.