made you turn round while she was milkin’ you, an’ lick her wid your tongue from pure affection—­for what was there that had life that didn’t love her?  That low, sweet song, Bracky, you will never hear again.  Well, Bracky, for her sake I’m come to tell you, this sorrowful mornin’, that while I have life an’ the means of keepin’ you, from me an’ them she loved you will never part.”

While he spoke the poor animal, feeling from the habit of instinct that the hour of! milking had arrived, turned round and uttered once or twice that affectionate lowing with which she usually called upon the departed to come and relieve her of her fragrant burthen.  This was more than the heart-broken man could bear, he walked back, and entering the wake-house, in a burst of vehement sorrow—­“Oh, Bridget, my wife, my wife—­is it any wondher we should feel your loss, when your favorite, Bracky, is callin’ for you; but you won’t come to her—­that voice that so often charmed her will never charm the poor affectionate creature again.”

“Father dear,” said Bryan, “if ever you were called upon to be a man it is now.”

“But, Byran, as God is to judge me,” replied his father, “the cow—­her own cow—­is callin’ for her in the cow-house widin—­its truth—­doesn’t everything miss her—­even poor Bracky feels as if she was dasarted.  Oh, my God, an’ what will we do—­what will we do!”

This anecdote told by the sorrowing husband was indeed inexpressingly affecting.  Bryan, who had collected all his firmness with a hope of being able to sustain his father, was so much overpowered by this circumstance that, after two or three ineffectual attempts to soothe him, he was himself fairly overcome, and yielded for the moment to bitter tears, whilst the whole family broke out into one general outburst, of sorrow, accompanied in many cases by the spectators, who were not proof against the influence of so natural and touching an incident.

Their neighbors and friends, in the meantime, were pouring in fast from all directions.  Jemmy Burke and his wife—­the latter ridiculously over-dressed—­drove there upon their jaunting-car, which was considered a great compliment, followed soon afterwards by Hycy and Harry Clinton on horse-back.  Gerald Cavanagh and his family also came, with the exception of Kathleen and Hanna, who were, however, every moment expected.  The schoolmaster having finished the De Profundis, was, as is usual, treated to glass of whiskey—­a circumstance which just advanced him to such a degree of fluency and easy assurance as was necessary properly to develop the peculiarities of his character.  Having witnessed Bryan’s failure at consolation, attended as it was by the clamorous grief of the family, he deemed it his duty, especially as he had just taken some part in the devotions, to undertake the task in which Bryan had been so unsuccessful.

“Thomas M’Mahon,” said he, “I’m disposed to blush—­do you hear me, I say?  I am disposed to blush, I repate, for your want of—­he doesn’t hear me:—­will you pay attention?  I am really disposed to blush”—­and as he uttered the words he stirred M’Mahon by shaking his shoulders two or three times, in order to gain his attention.