“See how unexpectedly He can surround even this cowld death-bed with his mercy.”

“Don’t say a death-bed”, my dear mother, for now that the blight of raison has left you, I hope you’ll get new strength.”

“I will,” she replied, with a feeble but Mournful smile, “I will Ned; but it’ll be in heaven with them I love, and that love me.  My dear Ned, all my cares are now over—­my affections past—­I will soon be out of sorrow and out of pain:  this heart will suffer no more, and this head will no longer be distracted!  Oh, the hopes of heaven, but they’re sweet and consolin’ on the bed of death!”

“Cherish them, dear Mary,” said Father Roche; “for I believe you will soon—­very soon indeed—­realize them.  Her pulse,” he added, “is scarcely perceptible, and you hear how very feeble her voice is.”

“What are we to do, then?” asked her son; “do you think, my dear mother, that you could bear removal?”

“No—­ah, no,”—­she replied, “No—­I feel that I am going fast—­my feet and limbs are like marble, and the cowld is gettin’ into my heart.”

“Ah, my darling mother,” said the son, in tears, “but that was the warm and the lovin’ heart!”

Father Roche then having put on his stole, went to her side, and, as is usual in all cases of approaching death, where a priest is in attendance, administered to her the last rites of religion.  Here in the mountain solitude did he cheer her departing spirit, as he had that of her husband, with the sustaining hopes of a glorious immortality.

“Now,” said she, “I know that I die happy; for here where I couldn’t expect it, has the light of God’s mercy shone upon me.  He has brought my son to my side—­He has brought the consolations of religion to my heart, when I was lyin’ helpless and alone in this mountain desert.  Yes,” she said, “I forgive all those who ill-treated both me and mine—­and the worst I wish them is, to pray that God may forgive them, and turn their hearts.  And now, Hugh, I am ready—­Tor-ey, my manly son, and my own Brian, with the fair locks, we’ll soon be all united again—­and never to part any more—­never to part anymore!  Ned,” said she, “kiss me; you are all I now lave behind me out of my fine family; but God’s will be done!  I need not bid you,” she added, “to bury me here, for I know you will—­and I wish you would put little Brian’s coffin on mine, in order that my darling child may sleep where I’d have him sleep, until the Resurrection Day—­that is, upon this lovin’ mother’s breast.  But what is this?” she asked; “is there a light—­a bright light—­about me?  I feel happy—­happy.  Oh sure this is the love of God that is to recompense me for all!”

Ned, who had her in his arms, felt her head fall down, and on looking at her, he perceived that she had actually passed away into the happiness of God’s love, which, no doubt, diffused its radiance through her spirit that was now made perfect.

“Yes,” said Father Roche, wiping his eyes, “a pure and noble spirit has indeed passed from a life of great trial and crushing, calamity into one of glory and immortality.  There is a proof, and a consoling proof, of the lustre which so often irradiates the death-beds of the humble classes in Ireland, who die far from the knowledge and notice of the great, whom their toil probably goes to support.”