As is usual with Catholic families in their state of life, there were several of those assembled, and also some of themselves, at joint prayer in different parts of the house; and seated by her bedside was her youngest son, Art, engaged, with sobbing voice and eyes every now and then blinded with tears, in the perusal, for her comfort, of Prayers for the Sick.  Tom M’Mahon himself went about every now and then clasping his hands, and turning up his eyes to heaven in a distracted manner, exclaiming—­“Oh!  Bridget, Bridget, is it come to this at last!  And you’re lavin’ me—­you’re lavin’ me!  Oh, my God! what will I do—­how will I live, an’ what will become of me!”

On seeing Bryan, he ran to him and said,—­“Oh!  Bryan, to what point will I turn?—­where will I get consolation?—­how will I bear it?  Sure, she was like a blessin’ from heaven among us; ever full of peace, and charity, and goodness—­the kind word an’ the sweet smile to all; but to me—­to me—­oh!  Bridget, Bridget, I’d rather die than live afther you!”

“Father, dear, your takin’ it too much to heart,” replied Bryan; “who knows but God may spare her to us still?  But you know that even if it’s His will to remove her from amongst us”—­his voice here failed him for a moment—­“hem—­to remove her from amongst us, it’s our duty to submit to it; but I hope in God she may recover still.  Don’t give way to sich grief till we hear what the docthor will say, at all events.  How did she complain or get ill; for I think she wasn’t worse when I left home?”

“It’s all in her stomach,” replied his father.  “She was seized wid cramps in her stomach, an’ she complains very much of her head; but her whole strength is gone, she can hardly spake, and she has death in her face.”

At this moment his brother Michael came to them, and said—­“Bryan—­Bryan”—­but he could proceed no farther.

“Whisht, Michael,” said the other; “this is a shame; instead of supportin’ and cheer-in’ my father, you’re only doing him harm.  I tell you all that you’ll find there’s no raison for this great grief.  Be a man, Michael—­”

“She has heard your voice,” proceeded his brother, “and wishes to see you.”

This proof of her affection for him, at the very moment when he was attempting to console others, was almost more than he could bear.  Bryan knew that he himself had been her favorite son, so far as a heart overflowing with kindness and all the tender emotions that consecrate domestic life and make up its happiness, could be said to have a favorite.  There was, however, that almost imperceptible partiality, which rarely made its appearance unless in some slight and inconsiderable circumstances, but which, for that very reason, was valuable in proportion to its delicacy and the caution with which it was guarded.  Always indeed in some quiet and inoffensive shape was the partiality she bore him observable; and sometimes it consisted in a postponement of his wishes or comforts to those of her other children, because she felt that she might do with him that which she could not with the others—­thus calculating as it were upon his greater affection.  But it is wonderful to reflect in how many ways, and through what ingenious devices the human heart can exhibit its tenderness.