some other shelter.  It was said, however, and generally supposed, by several of the neighboring gentry, that even M’Clutchy himself would scarcely dare to take such a step, in defiance of common humanity, public opinion, and the laws both of God and—­we were about to add—­man, but the word cannot be written.  Every step he took was strictly and perfectly legal, and the consequence was, that he had that strong argument, “I am supporthed by the, laws of the land,” to enable him to trample upon all the principles of humanity and justice—­to gratify political rancor, personal hatred, to oppress, persecute, and ruin.

Removal, however, in Torley O’Regan’s case, would have been instant death.  Motion or effort of any kind were strictly forbidden, as was conversation, except in the calmest and lowest tones, and everything at at all approaching to excitement.  Still the terror lest this inhuman agent might carry his resolution into effect on such a day, and under such circumstances, gave to their pitiable sense of his loss a dark and deadly hue of misery, at which the heart actually sickens.  From the hour of nine o’clock on that ominous morning, the inhabitants of Drum Dhu were passing, despite the storm, from cabin to cabin, discussing the probable events of the day, and asking each other if it could be possible that M’Clutchy would turn them out under such a tempest.  Nor was this all.  The scene indeed was one which ought never to be witnessed in any country.  Misery in all its shapes was there—­suffering in its severest pangs—­sickness—­disease—­famine—­and death—­to all which was to be added bleak, houseless, homeless, roofless desolation.  Had the season been summer they might have slept in the fields, made themselves temporary sheds, or carried their sick, and aged, and helpless, to distant places where humanity might aid and relieve them.  But no—­here were the elements of God, as it were, called in by the malignity and wickedness of man to war against old age, infancy, and disease.

For a day or two proceeding this, poor Torley thought he felt a little better, that is to say, his usual symptoms of suffering were litigated, as is sometimes the case when human weakness literally sinks below the reach of pain itself.  Ten o’clock had arrived and he had not yet awoke, having only fallen asleep a little before daybreak.  His father went to his bed-side, and looking down saw that he was still asleep, with a peaceful smile irradiating his features, as it were with a sense of inward happiness and tranquility.  He beckoned to his mother who approached the bed, and contemplated him with that tearless agony which sears the heart and brain, until the feeling would be gladly exchanged for madness.  The conversation which followed was in Irish, a circumstance that accounts for its figurative style and tenderness of expression.

“What is that smile,” said the father.  “It is the peace of God,” said the mother, “shining from an innocent and happy heart.  Oh!  Torley, my son, my son!”