“It can be done, an’ we’ll do it,” replied his mother; “we’ll do it my darlin’ boy—­my son, my son, we’ll do it.”

“Don’t you all forgive me—­forgive me—­everything?”

They could only, for some time, reply by their tears; but at length they did reply, and he seemed satisfied.

“Now,” said he, “there was an ould Irish air that Peggy used to sing for me—­I thought I heard her often singin’ it of late—­did I?”

“I suppose so, darlin’,” replied his mother; “I suppose you did.”

“Mary, here,” he proceeded, “sings it; I would like to hear it before I go; it’s the air of Gra Gal Machree.”

“Before you go, alanna!” exclaimed his father, pressing him tenderly to his breast.  “Oh! but they’re bitther words to us, my darlin’ an’ my lovin’ boy.  But the air, Mary, darlin’, strive an’ sing it for him as well as you can.”

It was a trying task for the affectionate girl, who, however, so far overcame her grief, as to be able to sing it with the very pathos of nature itself.

“Ay,” said he, as she proceeded, “that’s it—­that’s what Peggy used to sing for me, bekaise she knew I liked it.”

Tender and full of sorrow were the notes as they came from the innocent lips of that affectionate sister.  Her task, however, was soon over; for scarcely had she concluded the air, when her poor brother’s ears and heart were closed to the melody and affection it breathed, forever.

“I know,” said she, with tears, “that there’s one thing will give comfort to you all respecting poor Tom.  Peter Rafferty, who helped him home, seein’ the dyin’ state he was in, went over to the Car, and brought one of Father Hanratty’s curates to him, so that he didn’t depart without resaving the rites of the Church, thank God!”

This took the sting of bitterness out of their grief, and infused into it a spirit that soothed their hearts, and sustained them by that consolation which the influence of religion and its ordinances, in the hour of death and sorrow, never fail to give to an Irish family.

Old Dalton’s sleep was sound that night; and when he awoke the next morning the first voice he heard was that of our friend Toddy Mack, which, despite of the loss they had sustained, and its consequent sorrow, diffused among them a spirit of cheerfulness and contentment.

“You have no raison,” said he, “to fly in the face of God—­I don’t mane you, Mrs. Dalton—­but these youngsters.  If what I heard is thrue that that poor boy never was himself since the girl died, it was a mercy for God to take him; and afther all He is a betther judge of what’s fit for us than we ourselves.  Bounce, now, Mr. Dalton; you have little time to lose.  I want you to come wid me to the agent, Mr. Travers.  He wishes, I think, to see yourself, for he says he has heard a good account o’ you, an’ I promised to bring you.  If we’re there about two o’clock we’ll hit the time purty close.”