“Is this—­is this—­Father Mulcahy?  Oh!  I’m ill—­ill!”—­

“It is, dear; it is.  Compose yourself and confess your sins.”

“Where’s Mary?  She’ll neglect—­neglect to lay in a stock o’ linen, although I—­I—­Oh, Father, avourneen! won’t you pity me!  I’m sick—­oh, I’m very sick!”

“You are, dear—­you are, God help you, very sick, but you’ll be better soon.  Could you confess, dear?—­do you think you could?”

“Oh, this pain—­this pain!—­it’s killin’ me!—­Pether—­Pether, a suillish, machree, (* The light of my heart) have, have you des—­have you desarted me.”

The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she might feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, called him in from the next room.

“Here’s Peter,” said the priest, presenting him to her view—­“Here’s Peter, dear.”

“Oh! what a load is on me! this pain—­this pain is killin’ me—­won’t you bring me, Pether?  Oh, what will I do?  Who’s there?”

The mental pangs of poor Peter were, perhaps, equal in intensity to those which she suffered physically.

“Ellish,” said he, in smothered sobs—­“Ellish, acushla machree, sure I’m wid you here; here I’m sittin’ on the bed wid you, achora machree.”

“Catch my hand, thin.  Ah, Pether! won’t you pity your Ellish?—­Won’t you pity me—­won’t you pity me?  Oh! this pain—­this pain—­is killin’ me!”

“It is, it is, my heart’s delight—­it’s killin’ us both.  Oh, Ellish, Ellish!  I wish I was dead sooner nor see you in this agony.  I ever loved you!—­I ever an’ always loved you, avourneen dheelish; but now I would give my heart’s best blood, if it’ud save you.  Here’s Father Mulcahy come.”

“About the mon—­about the money—­Pether—­what do you intind——­Oh! my blood—­my blood’s a-fire!—­Mother o’Heaven!—­Oh! this pain is—­is takin’ me from all—­faix!—­Rise me up!”

“Here, my darlin’—­treasure o’ my heart here—­I’m puttin’ your head upon my breast—­upon my breast, Ellish, ahagur.  Marciful Virgin—­Father dear,” said Peter, bursting into bitter tears—­“her head’s like fire!  O!  Ellish, Ellish, Ellish!—­but my heart’s brakin’ to feel this!  Have marcy on her, sweet God—­have marcy on her!  Bear witness, Father of heaven—­bear witness, an’ hear the vow of a brakin’ heart.  I here solemnly promise before God, to make, if I’m spared life an’ health to do it, a Station on my bare feet to Lough Derg, if it plases you, sweet Father o’ pity, to spare her to me this day!  Oh! but the hand o’ God, Father dear, is terrible!—­feel her brow!—­Oh! but it’s terrible!”

“It is terrible,” said the priest; “and terribly is it laid upon her, poor woman!  Peter, do not let this scene be lost.  Remember it.”

“Oh, Father dear, can I ever forget it?—­can I ever forget seein’ my darlin’ in sich agony?”

“Pether,” said the sick woman, “will you get the car ready for to-mor—­to-morrow—­till I look at that piece o’ land that Dan bought, before he—­he closes the bargain?”