Poor Ellish was in a dreadful state.  Her malady seized her in the very midst of her worldly-mindedness; and the current of her usual thoughts, when stopped by the aberrations of intellect peculiar to her illness, bubbled up, during the temporary returns of reason, with a stronger relish of the world.  It was utterly impossible for a woman like her, whose habits of thought and the tendency of whose affections had been all directed towards the acquisition of wealth, to wrench them for ever and at once from the objects on which they were fixed.  This, at any time, would have been to her a difficult victory to achieve; but now, when stunned by the stroke of disease, and confused by the pangs of severe suffering, tortured by a feverish pulse and a burning brain, to expect that she could experience the calm hopes of religion, or feel the soothing power of Christian sorrow, was utter folly.  ’Tis true, her life had been a harmless one:  her example, as an industrious and enterprising member of society, was worthy of imitation.  She was an excellent mother, a good neighbor, and an admirable wife; but the duties arising out of these different relations of life, were all made subservient to, and mixed up with, her great principle of advancing herself in the world, whilst that which is to come never engaged one moment’s serious consideration.

When Father Mulcahy came to administer the rites of the church to Ellish, he found her in a state of incoherency.  Occasional gleams of reason broke out through the cloud that obscured her intellect, but they carried with them the marks of a mind knit indissolubly to wealth and aggrandizement.  The same tenor of thought, and the same broken fragments of ambitious speculation, floated in rapid confusion through the tempests of delirium which swept with awful darkness over her spirit.

“Mrs. Connell,” said he, “can you collect yourself?  Strive to compose your mind, so far as to be able to receive the aids of religion.”

“Oh, oh!—­my blood’s boilin’!  Is that—­is that Father Mulcahy?”

“It is, dear:  strive now to keep your mind calm, till you prepare yourself for judgment.”

“Keep up his head, Paddy—­keep up his head, or he’ll be smothered undher the wather an’ the sludge.  Here, Mike, take this rope:  pull, man,—­pull, or the horse will be lost!  Oh, my head!—­I’m boilin’—­I’m burnin’!”

“Mrs. Connell, let me entreat you to remember that you are on the point of death, and should raise your heart to God, for the pardon and remission of your sins.”

“Oh!  Father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded—­I intinded—­Where’s Pether!—­bring, bring—­Pether to me!”

“Turn your thoughts to God, now, my dear.  Are you clear enough in your mind for confession?”

“I am, Father!  I am, avourneen.  Come, come here, Pether!  Pether, I’m goin’ to lave you, asthore machree!  I could part wid them all but—­but you.”

“Mrs. Connell, for Heaven’s sake.”—.