“Vara,” said he, “I know the boy—­he won’t give it up; and ’twould be a pity—­maybe a sin—­to put him from it.  Let the child get fair play, and thry his coorse.  If, he fails, he can come back to us, an’ our arms an’ hearts will be open to welcome him!  But, if God prospers him, wouldn’t it be a blessin’ that we never expected, to see him in the white robes, celebratin’ one mass for his parents.  If these ould eyes could see that, I would be continted to close them in pace an’ happiness for ever.”

“An’ well you’d become them, avourneen machree! Well would your mild and handsome countenance look wid the long heavenly stole of innocence upon you! and although it’s atin’ into my heart, I’ll bear it for the sake of seein’ the same blessed sight.  Look at that face, Dominick; mightn’t many a lord of the land be proud to have sich a son?  May the heavens shower down its blessin’ upon him!”

The father burst into tears.  “It is—­it is!” said he.  “It is the face that ’ud make many a noble heart proud to look at it!  Is it any wondher it ’ud cut our hearts, thin, to have it taken from afore our eyes?  Come away, Vara, come away, or I’ll not be able to part wid it.  It is the lovely face—­an’ kind is the heart of my darlin’ child!” As he spoke, he stooped down and kissed the youth’s cheek, on which the warm tears of affection fell, soft as the dew from heaven.  The mother followed his example, and they both left the room.

“We must bear it,” said Dominick, as they passed into another apartment; “the money’s gathered, an’ it wouldn’t look well to be goin’ back wid it to them that befrinded us.  We’d have the blush upon our face for it, an’ the child no advantage.”

“Thrue for you, Dominick; and we must make up our minds to live widout him for a while.”

The following morning was dark and cloudy, but calm and without rain.  When the family were all assembled, every member of it evinced traces of deep feeling, and every eye was fixed upon the serene but melancholy countenance of the boy with tenderness and sorrow.  He himself maintained a quiet equanimity, which, though apparently liable to be broken by the struggles of domestic affection, and in character with his meek and unassuming disposition, yet was supported by more firmness than might be expected from a mind in which kindness and sensibility were so strongly predominant.  At this time, however, his character was not developed, or at least not understood, by those that surrounded him.  To strong feelings and enduring affections he added a keenness of perception and a bitterness of invective, of which, in his conversation with his father concerning Yellow Sam, the reader has already had sufficient proofs.  At breakfast little or nothing was eaten; the boy himself could not taste a morsel, nor any other person in the family.  When the form of the meal was over, the father knelt down—­“It’s right,” said he, “that we should all go to our knees, and join in a Rosary in behalf of the child that’s goin’ on a good intintion.  He won’t thrive the worse bekase the last words that he’ll hear from his father and mother’s lips is a prayer for bringin the blessin’ of God down upon his endayvors.”