The old man’s search for food in the kitchen had given to the neighbors the first intimation of their actual distress, and in a few minutes it was discovered that there was not a mouthful of anything in the house, nor had they tasted a single morsel since the morning before, when they took a little gruel which their daughter made for them.  In a moment, with all possible speed, the poor creatures about them either went or sent for sustenance, and in many a case, almost the last morsel was shared with them, and brought, though scanty and humble, to their immediate assistance.  In this respect there is not in the world any people so generous and kind to their fellow-creatures as the Irish, or whose sympathies are so deep and tender, especially in periods of sickness, want, or death.  It is not the tear alone they are willing to bestow—­oh no—­whatever can be done, whatever aid can be given, whatever kindness rendered, or consolation offered, even to the last poor shilling, or, “the very bit out of the mouth,” as they say themselves, will be given with a good will, and a sincerity that might in vain be looked for elsewhere.  But alas! they know what it is to want this consolation and assistance themselves, and hence their promptitude and anxiety to render them to others.  The old man, touched a little by the affecting language of his wife, began to lose the dull stony look we have described, and his eyes turned upon those who were about him with something like meaning, although at that moment it could scarcely be called so.

“Am I dhramin’?” he asked.  “Is this a dhrame?  What brings the people all about us?  Where’s Alick from us—­an’ stay—­where’s her that I loved best, in spite of her folly?  Where’s Peggy from me—­there’s something wrong wid me—­and yet she’s not here to take care o’ me?”

“Brian, dear,” said a poor famished-looking woman approaching him, “she’s in a betther place, poor thing.”

“Go long out o’ that,” he replied, “and don’t put your hands on me.  It’s Peggy’s hands I want to have about me, an’ her voice.  Where’s Peggy’s voice, I say?  ‘Father, forgive me,’ she said, ’forgive me, father, or I’ll never be happy more;’ but I wouldn’t forgive her, although my heart did at the same time; still I didn’t say the word:  bring her here,” he added, “tell her I’m ready now to forgive her all; for she, it’s she that was the forgivin’ creature herself; tell her I’m ready now to forgive her all, an’ to give her my blessin’ wanst more.”

It was utterly impossible to hear this language from the stunned and heart-broken father, and to contemplate the fair and lifeless form of the unhappy young creature as she lay stretched before him in the peaceful stillness of death, without being moved even to tears.  There were, indeed, few dry eyes in the house as he spoke.