“I’m an unhappy man, Nancy,” he replied, “but it never went to that with me, thank God—­but where is that poor wild boy of ours, Tom,—­oh, where is he now, till he gets one meal’s mate?”

“He is up at the Murtaghs,” said his sister, “an’ I had better fetch him home; I think the poor fellow’s almost out of his senses since Peggy Murtagh’s death—­that an’ the dregs of the fever has him that he doesn’t know what he’s doin’, God help him.”

CHAPTER XII. —­ Famine, Death, and Sorrow.

It has never been our disposition, either in the living life we lead, or in the fictions, humble and imperfect as they are, which owe their existence to our imagination, to lay too heavy a hand upon human frailty, any more than it has been to countenance or palliate vice, whether open or hypocritical.  Peggy Murtagh, with whose offence and death the reader is already acquainted, was an innocent and affectionate girl, whose heart was full of kind, generous, and amiable feelings.  She was very young, and very artless, and loved not wisely but too well; while he who was the author of her sin, was nearly as young and artless as herself, and loved her with a first affection.  She was, in fact, one of those gentle, timid, and confiding creatures who suspect not evil in others, and are full of sweetness and kindness to every one.  Never did there live—­with the exception of her offence—­a tenderer daughter, or a more affectionate sister than poor Peggy, and for this reason, the regret was both sincere and general, which was felt for her great misfortune.  Poor girl! she was but a short time released from her early sorrows, when her babe followed her, we trust, to a better world, where the tears were wiped from her eyes, and the weary one got rest.

The scene in her father’s house on this melancholy night, was such as few hearts could bear unmoved, as well on account of her parents’ grief, as because it may be looked upon as a truthful exponent both of the destitution of the country, and of the virtues and sympathies of our people.

Stretched upon a clean bed in the only room that was off the kitchen, lay the fair but lifeless form of poor Peggy Murtagh.  The bed was, as is usual, hung with white, which was simply festooned about the posts and canopy, and the coverlid was also of the same spotless color, as were the death clothes in which she was laid out.  To those who are beautiful—­and poor Peggy had possessed that frequently fatal gift—­death in its first stage, bestows an expression of mournful tenderness that softens while it solemnizes the heart.  In her case there was depicted all the innocence and artlessness that characterized her brief and otherwise spotless life.  Over this melancholy sweetness lay a shadow that manifested her early suffering and sorrow, made still more touching by the presence of an expression which was felt by the spectator to have been that of repentance.  Her rich auburn hair