“Oh! father dear, forgive me—­your own poor Peggy; sure it was chiefly on your account and Mary’s I was goin’ to do it.  I won’t go, then, since you don’t wish it; but I’ll die with you.”

The old man flung the stick from him, and clasping her in his arms, he sobbed and wept aloud.

“My darlin’ child,” he exclaimed, “that never yet gave one of us a bad word or angry look—­will you forgive your unhappy father, that doesn’t know what he’s doin’!  Oh!  I feel that this state we’re in—­this outher desolation an’ misery we’re in—­will drive me mad! but that hasty blow, avourneen machree—­that hasty blow an’ the hot temper that makes me give it, is my curse yet, has always been my curse, an’ ever will be my curse; it’s that curse that’s upon me now, an’ upon all of us this minute—­it is, it is!”

“Condy,” said his wife, “we all know that you’re not as bad as you make yourself.  Within the last few years your temper has been sorely tried, and your heart too, God knows; for our trials and our downcome in this world has been great.  In all these trials, however, and sufferings, its a consolation to us, that we never neglected to praise an’ worship the Almighty—­we are now brought almost to the very last pass—­let us go to our knees, then, an’ throw ourselves upon His mercy, and beg of Him to support us, an’ if it’s His holy will, to aid us, and send us relief.”

“Oh, Mary dear,” exclaimed her husband, “but you are the valuable and faithful wife!  If ever woman was a protectin’ angel to man, you wor to me.  Come children, in the name of the merciful God, let us kneel and pray.”

The bleak and depressing aspect of twilight had now settled down upon the sweltering and deluged country, and the air was warm, thick, moist, and consequently unhealthy.  The cabin of the Daltons was placed in a low, damp situation; but fortunately it was approached by a remnant of one of those old roads or causeways which had once been peculiar to the remote parts of the country, and also of very singular structure, the least stone in it being considerably larger than a shilling loaf.  This causeway was nearly covered with grass, so that in addition to the antique and desolate appearance which this circumstance gave it, the footsteps of a passenger could scarcely be heard as they fell upon the thick close grass with which its surface was mostly covered.

Along this causeway, then, at the very hour when the Daltons, moved by that piety which is characteristic of our peasantry, had gone to prayer, was the strange woman whom we have already noticed, proceeding with that relief which it may be God in His goodness had ordained should reach them in answer to the simple but trustful spirit of their supplications.  On reaching the miserable looking cabin, she paused, listened, and heard their voices blend in those devout tones that always mark the utterance of prayer among the people.  They were, in fact, repeating a Rosary, and surely, it is not for those who differ with them in creed, or for any one who feel the influence of true charity, to quarrel with the form of prayer, when the heart is moved as theirs were, by earnestness and humble piety.