“This is a solemn hour,” said she, “an’ a woful sight in this place of misery.  Keep quiet, all of you.  I know what this is about, dear Condy,” she said; “I know it; but what is the value of our faith, if it doesn’t teach us obedience?  Kiss your child, here,” said she, “an’ go—­or come, I ought to say, for I will go with you.  It’s not to be wondhered at that she couldn’t bear it, weak, and worn, and nearly heartbroken as she is.  Bless her, too, before you go.  An’ this girl,” she said, pointing at Mary, and addressing Sarah, “you will spake to her, an’ support her as well as you can, and stay with them all for an hour or two.  I can’t lave him.”

Dalton, while she spoke, had taken Mary in his arms, kissed her, and, as in the case of the others, blessed her with a fervor only surpassed by his sorrow and utter despair.

“I will stay with them,” said Sarah; “don’t doubt that—­not for an hour or two, but till they come to either life or death; so I tould him.”

“It’s a bitther case,” said Mrs. Dalton; “a bitther case; but then it’s God’s gracious will, an’ them that He loves He chastises.  Blessed be His name for all He does, and blessed be His name ever for this!”

Mary now recovered in her father’s arms; and her mother, in a low but energetic voice, pointing to the beds, said: 

“Think of them, darlin’.  There now, part with him.  This world, I often tould you dear, Mary, is not our place, but our passage; an’ although it’s painful let us not forget that it is God Himself that is guidin’ and directin’ us through it.  Come, Con dear, come.”

A long mournful embrace, and another sorrowful but fervent blessing, and with a feeble effort at consolation, Dalton parted with the weeping girl; and placing his hat on his white head, he gave one long look—­one indescribable look—­upon all that was so dear to him in this scene of unutterable misery, and departed.  He had not gone far, however, when he returned a step or two towards the door; and Mary, having noticed this, went to him, and throwing her arms once more about his neck, exclaimed: 

“Oh!  Father, darlin’ an’ is it come to this?  Oh, did we ever complain or grumble about all we suffered, while we had you wid us? no, we wouldn’t.  What was our sufferins, father, dear—­nothing.  But, oh, nothing ever broke our hearts, or troubled us, but to see you in sich sorrow.”

“It’s thrue, Mary darlin’; you wor all—­all a blessin’ to me; but I feel, threasure of my heart, that my sorrows an’ my cares will soon be over.  It’s about Tom I come back.  Och, sure I didn’t care what he or we might suffer, if it had plased God to lave him in his senses; but maybe now he’s happier than we are.  Tell him—­if he can understand it, or when he does understand it—­that I lave my blessin’ and God’s blessin’ with him for evermore—­for evermore:  an’ with you all; an’ with you, too, young woman, for evermore, amen!  And now come; I submit myself to the will of my marciful Saviour.”