“But, father,” said the sweet girl at his side, “think of me.  Sure I’ll be your Dora more than ever, now.  You know what you promised me this minute.  Oh, for her sake, and for God’s sake, then, don’t take it so much to heart.  It was my grandfather sent me to you, an’ he says he want’s to see you, an’ to spake to you.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “My poor father, an’ he won’t be long afther her.  But this is the way wid all, Bryan—­the way o’ the world itself.  We must go.  I didn’t care, now, how soon I followed her.  Oh, no, no.”

“Don’t say so, father; think of the family you have; think of how you love them, and how they love you, father dear.  Don’t give way so much to this sorrow.  I know it’s hard to bid you not to do it; but you know we must strive to overcome ourselves.  I hope there’s happy days and years before us still.  We’ll have our leases soon, you know, an’ then we’ll feel firm and comfortable:  an’ you know you’ll be—­we’ll all be near where she sleeps.”

“Where she sleeps.  Well, there’s comfort in that, Bryan—­there’s comfort in that.”

The old man, though very feeble, on seeing him approach, rose up and met him.  “Tom,” said he, “be a man, and don’t shame my white hairs nor your own.  I lost your mother, an’ I was as fond of her, an’ had as good a right, too, as ever you were of her that’s now an angel in heaven; but if I lost her, I bore it as a man ought.  I never yet bid you do a thing that you didn’t do, but I now bid you stop cryin’, an don’t fly in the face o’ God as you’re doin’.  You respect my white hairs, an’ God will help you as he has done!”

The venerable appearance of the old man, the melancholy but tremulous earnestness with which he spoke, and the placid spirit of submission which touched his whole bearing with the light of an inward piety that no age could dim or overshadow, all combined to work a salutary influence upon M’Mahon.  He evidently made a great effort at composure, nor without success.  His grief became calm; he paid attention to other matters, and by the aid of Bryan, and from an anxiety lest he should disturb or offend his father by any further excess of sorrow, he was enabled to preserve a greater degree of composure than might have been expected.

CHAPTER XII.—­Hycy Concerts a Plot and is urged to Marry.

The Hogans, who seldom missed a Wake, Dance, Cockfight or any other place of amusement or tumult, were not present, we need scarcely assure our readers, at the wake-house of Mrs. M’Mahon.  On that night they and Teddy Phats were all sitting in their usual domicile, the kiln, already mentioned, expecting Hycy, when the following brief dialogue took place, previous to his appearance: 

“What keeps this lad, Hycy?” said Bat; “an’ a complate lad is in his coat, when he has it on him.  Troth I have my doubts whether this same gentleman is to be depended on.”