“Father of heaven,"* she exclaimed, “I have been driven out of my raison by too much sorrow, and here I am restored to it on the very graves where those that I love!”

     * The reader is to remember, that she is supposed to give
     utterance to all her feelings and sentiments in the Irish
     language.

She then endeavored to rise, but found on making the attempt, that she had not strength for it.  The consciousness of this filled her heart with woe almost unutterable.

“Merciful father,” she again exclaimed, “do not—­oh, do not suffer me to die on this wild mountain side, far from the face or voice of a human being!  There is nothing too powerful for your hand, or beyond your strength or your mercy, to them that put their humble trust in you.  Save me, oh, God, from this frightful and lonely death, and do not let me perish here without the consolations of religion!  But if it’s thy blessed and holy will to let me do so, then it is my duty to submit!  Give me strength, then, to bow to thy will, and to receive with faith and thanksgivin’ whatever you choose to bestow upon me!  And above all things O Lord, grant me a repentant heart, and that my bleak and lonely death-bad may have the light of glory upon it!  Grant me this, O God, and I will die happy even here; for where your blessed presence is there can be nothing wantin’.”

Her piety and faith in the mercy of God were not without their own reward.  The last words were scarcely uttered, when Father Roche, accompanied by her son Ned, advanced to the grave on which she sat.  He had been absent on a sick call, and would not have been aware of her escape to the mountains, were it not for her son, who, having met him on his return, requested permission to see her, only for a few minutes, if not too late.  The priest granted him so reasonable a request, and it was on seeking for her that the discovery of her absence took place, the rest of the family having been of opinion that she had gone to bed in the early part of the evening, as was mostly her habit.  The priest suspected, from her weak state of health and shattered constitution, that such a journey would probably prove fatal, and with his usual discrimination he calculated upon the restoration to reason which actually occurred.

“In that case,” said he, “the administration of the last rites will console her on her bed of death, and God forbid that she should depart without them.  It is my duty that she shall not.”

“Poor woman!” said he, as they approached her, “this chilly night will be a severe trial upon her.”

“What wouldn’t I give, my dear mother,—­oh, what wouldn’t I give,” said Ned, tenderly taking her hand, “to see your senses restored to you!”

“Thank the Almighty, then!” she returned feebly—­“what!—­my darling son Ned! and Father Roche!  Oh, was I not right in sayin’ that there is nothing too powerful for God’s strength and love?” she exclaimed; she then kissed her son, who burst into tears, and tenderly embraced her.