“It’s a great thrial to us, children,” she observed; “an’ it’s only natural we should feel it.  I do not bid you to stop cryin’, my poor girls, because it would be very strange if you didn’t cry.  Still, let us not forget that it’s our duty to bow down humbly before whatever misfortune—­an’ this is indeed a woeful one—­that it pleases God in His wisdom (or, may be, in His mercy), to lay in our way.  That’s all we can do now, God help us—­an’ a hard thrial it is—­for when we think of what he was to us—­of his kindness—­his affection!——­”

Her own voice became infirm, and, instead of proceeding, she paused a moment, and then giving one long, convulsive sob, that rushed up from her very heart, she wept out long and bitterly.  The grief now became a wail; and were it not for the presence of Con, who, however, could scarcely maintain a firm voice himself, the sorrow-worn mother and her unhappy daughters would have scarcely known when to cease.

“Mother dear!” he exclaimed—­“what use is in this?  You began with givin’ us a good advice, an’ you ended with settin’ us a bad example!  Oh, mother, darlin’, forgive me the word—­never, never since we remember anything, did you ever set us a bad example.”

“Con dear, I bore up as long as I could,” she replied, wiping her eye; “but you know, after all, nature’s nature, an’ will have its way.  You know, too, that this is the first tear I shed, since he left us.”

“I know,” replied her son, laying her careworn cheek over upon his bosom, “that you are the best mother that ever breathed, an’ that I would lay down my life to save your heart from bein’ crushed, as it is, an’ as it has been.”

She felt a few warm tears fall upon her face as he spoke; and the only reply she made was, to press him affectionately to her heart.

“God’s merciful, if we’re obedient,” she added, in a few moments; “don’t you remember, that when Abraham was commanded to kill his only son, he was ready to obey God, and do it; and don’t you remember that it wasn’t until his very hand was raised, with the knife in it, that God interfered.  Whisht,” she continued, “I hear a step—­who is it?  Oh, poor Tom!”

The poor young man entered as she spoke; and after looking about him for some time, placed himself in the arm chair.

“Tom, darlin’,” said his sister Peggy, “don’t sit in that—­that’s our poor father’s chair; an’ until he sits in it again, none of us ever will.”

“Nobody has sich a right to sit in it as I have,” he replied, “I’m a murdherer.”

His words, his wild figure, and the manner in which he uttered them, filled them with alarm and horror.

“Tom, dear,” said his brother, approaching him, “why do you speak that way?—­you’re not a murdherer!”

“I am!” he replied; “but I haven’t done wid the Sullivans yet, for what they’re goin’ to do—­ha, ha, ha!—­oh, no.  It’s all planned; an’ they’ll suffer, never doubt it.”