wid me, is what kills me.  This is the hand of God that’s upon us, an’ that will be upon us, an’ that has been upon us, an’ I knew it would be so; for ever since that black night, the thought—­the thought of what happened!—­ay, it’s that that’s in me, an’ upon me—­it’s that that has put wrinkles in my cheek before their time, an’ that has made my hair white before its time, and that has—­”

“Con, dear,” observed his wife, “I never wished you to be talkin’ of that before them; sure you did as much as a man could do; you repented, an’ were sorry for it, an’ what more could be expected from you?”

“Father, dear,” said Mary, drying, or struggling to dry her tears, “don’t think of me, or of any of us, nor don’t think of anything that will disturb your mind—­don’t think of the, at any rate—­I’m very weak, but I’m not so hungry as you may think; if I had one mouthful of anything just to take this feelin’ that I have inwardly, an’ this weakness away, I would be satisfied—­that would do me; an’ although I’m cryin’ it’s more to see your misery, father dear, an’ all your miseries, than for what I’m sufferin’ myself; but there’s a kiss for you, it’s all I have to give you.”

“Mary, dear,” said her sister, smote to the heart by her words, “you’re sufferin’ more than any of us, you an’ my father,” and she encircled her lovingly and mournfully in her arms as she spoke, and kissed her wan lips, after which she went to the old man, and said in a voice of compassion and consolation that was calculated to soothe any hearers—­

“Oh, father, dear, if you could only banish all uneasy thoughts from your mind—­if you could only throw that darkness that’s so often over you, off you, we could bear anything—­anything—­Oh, anything, if we seen you aisy in your mind, an’ happy!”

Mrs. Dalton had dried her tears, and sat upon a low stool musing and silent, and apparently revolving in her mind the best course to be pursued under such circumstances.  It was singular to observe the change that had taken place in her appearance even within a few hours; the situation of her family, and her want of success in procuring them food, had so broken down her spirits and crushed her heart, that the lines of her face were deepened and her features sharpened and impressed with the marks of suffering as strongly as if they had been left there by the affliction of years.  Her son leant himself against a piece of the broken wall that partially divided their hut into something like two rooms, if they could be called so, and from time to time he glanced about him, now at his father, then at his poor sisters, and again at his heart-broken mother, with an impatient agony of spirit that could scarcely be conceived.