that the character of prayer was heightened by the force of the affection which they bore her.  When Peter, for instance, could command himself to utter a word, he pressed his dying wife to his bosom, and raised his eyes to heaven in a manner that would have melted any human heart; and the daughter, on joining occasionally in the response, pressed her mother’s hand to her heart, and kissed it with her lips, conscious that the awful state of her parent had rendered more necessary the performance of the two tenderest duties connected with a child’s obedience—­prayer and affection.

When the son-in-law had finished his Decade, a pause followed, for there was none now to proceed but her husband, or her daughter.

“Mary, dear,” said the priest, “be a woman; don’t let your love for your mother prevent you from performing a higher duty.  Go on with the prayer—­you see she is passing fast.”

“I’ll try, uncle,” she replied—­“I’ll try; but—­but—­it’s hard, hard, upon me.”

She commenced, and by an uncommon effort so far subdued her grief, as to render her words intelligible.  Her eyes, streaming with tears, were fixed with a mixture of wildness, sorrow, and devotedness, upon the countenance of her mother, until she had completed her Decade.

Another pause ensued.  It was now necessary, according to the order and form of the Prayer, that Peter should commence and offer up his supplications for the happy passage from life to eternity of her who had been his inward idol during a long period.  Peter knew nothing about sentiment, or the philosophy of sorrow; but he loved his wife with the undivided power of a heart in which nature had implanted her strongest affections.  He knew, too, that his wife had loved him with a strength of heart equal to his own.  He loved her, and she deserved his love.

The pause, when the prayer had gone round to him, was long; those who were present at length turned their eyes towards him, and the priest, now deeply affected, cleared his voice, and simply said, “Peter,” to remind him that it was his duty to proceed with the Rosary.

Peter, however, instead of uttering the prayer, burst out into a tide of irrepressible sorrow.—­“Oh!” said he, enfolding her in his arms, and pressing his lips to hers:  “Ellish, ahagur machree! sure when I think of all the goodness, an’ kindness, an’ tendherness that you showed me—­whin I think of your smiles upon me, whin you wanted me to do the right, an’ the innocent plans you made out, to benefit me an’ mine!—­Oh! where was your harsh word, avillish?—­where was your could brow, or your bad tongue?  Nothin’ but goodness—­nothin’ but kindness, an’ love, an’ wisdom, ever flowed from these lips!  An’ now, darlin’, pulse o’ my broken heart! these same lips can’t spake to me—­these eyes don’t know me—­these hands don’t feel me—­nor your ears doesn’t hear me!”

“Is—­is—­it you?” replied his wife feebly—­“is it—­you?—­come—­come near me—­my heart—­my heart says it misses you—­come near me!”