The poor lad’s heart was engaged on other thoughts and other scenes; his home, and its beloved inmates—­sorrow and the gush of young affections, were ready to burst forth.

“I cannot ate,” said he, and he looked imploringly on the farmer and his wife, whilst the tears started to his eyes—­“don’t ax me, for my heart’s wid them I left behind me, that I may never see agin!” and he wept in a burst of grief which he could not restrain.

Neither the strength nor tenderness of the lad’s affection was unappreciated by this excellent couple.  In a moment the farmer’s wife was also in tears; nor did her husband break the silence for some minutes.

“The Almighty pity an’ strengthen him!” said the farmer’s wife, “but he has the good an’ the kind heart, an’ would be a credit to any family.—­Whisht, acushla machree—­whisht, we won’t ax you to ate—­no indeed.  It was out o’ kindness we did it:  don’t be cast down aither; sure it isn’t the ocean you’re crossin’; but goin’ from one county like to another.  God ‘ll guard an’ take care o’ you, so he will.  Your intintion’s good, an’ he’ll prosper it.”

“He will, avick,” said the farmer himself—­“he will.  Cheer up, my good boy!  I know thim that’s larned an’ creditable clargy this day, that went as you’re goin’—­ay, an’ that ris an’ helped their parents, an’ put them above poverty an’ distress; an’ never fear, wid a blessin’, but you’ll do the same.”

“That’s what brings me at all,” replied the boy, drying his tears; “if I was once able to take them out o’ their distresses, I’d be happy:  only I’m afeard the cares o’ the world will break my father’s heart before I have it in my power to assist him.”

“No such thing, darlin’,” said the good woman.  “Sure his hopes out o’ you, an’ his love for you will keep him up; an’ you dunna but God may give him a blessin’ too, avick.”

“Mix another sup o’that for him,” said the fanner:  “he’s low spirited, an’ it’s too strong to give him any more of it as it is.  Childhre, where’s the masther from us—­eh?  Why, thin, God help them, the crathurs—­wasn’t it thoughtful o’ them to lave the place while he was at his dinner, for fraid he’d be dashed—­manin’ them young crathurs, Alley, But can you tell us where the ‘masther’ is?  Isn’t this his night wid us?  I know he tuck his dinner here.”

“Ay did he; but it’s up to Larry Murphy’s he’s gone, to thry his son in his book-keepin’.  Mavrone, but he had time enough to put him well through it afore this, any way.”

As she spoke, a short thickset man, with black twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks entered.  This personage was no other than the schoolmaster of that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one farmer’s house to another, in order to expound for his kind entertainers the news of the day, his own learning, and the very evident extent of their ignorance.

The moment he came in, the farmer and his wife rose with an air of much deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire, leaving a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal durst presume to sit.