The position of the sun, too, rendered it more difficult to be seen; and Owen, for it was he, shaded his eyes with his hand, to survey it more distinctly.  Many a harrowing thought and remembrance passed through his mind, as his eye traced its dim outline in the fading-light’.  He had done his duty—­he had gone to the fountain-head, with a hope that his simple story of affliction might be heard; but all was fruitless:  the only gleam, of hope that opened upon their misery had now passed into darkness and despair for ever.  He pressed his aching forehead with distraction as he thought of this; then clasped his hands bitterly, and groaned aloud.

At length he rose, and proceeded with great difficulty, for the short rest had stiffened his weak and fatigued joints.  As he approached home his heart sank; and as he ascended the blood-red stream which covered the bridle-way that led to his house, what with fatigue and affliction, his agitation weakened him so much that, he stopped, and leaned on his staff several times, that he might take breath.

“It’s too dark, maybe, for them to see me, or poor Kathleen would send the darlins to give me the she dha veha (* the welcome).  Kathleen, avourneen machree! how my heart beats wid longin’ to see you, asthore, and to see the weeny crathurs—­glory be to Him that has left them to me—­praise and glory to His name!”

He was now within a few perches of thy door; but a sudden misgiving shot across his heart when he saw it shut, and no appearance of smoke from the chimney, nor of stir or life about the house.  He advanced—­

“Mother of glory, what’s this!—­But, wait, let me rap agin.  Kathleen, Kathleen!—­are you widin, avourneen?  Owen—­Alley—­arn’t ye widin, childhre?  Alley, sure I’m come back to you all!” and he rapped more loudly than before.  A dark breeze swept through the bushes as he spoke, but no voice nor sound proceeded from the house;—­all was still as death within.  “Alley!” he called once more to his little favorite; “I’m come home wid something for you, asthore!  I didn’t forget you, alanna!—­I brought it from Dublin, all the way.  Alley!” but the gloomy murmur of the blast was the only reply.

Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew as misery was that which he then felt; but this state of suspense was soon terminated by the appearance of a neighbor who was passing.

“Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home agin, my poor fellow; and I’m sorry that I haven’t betther news for you, and so are all of us.”

He whom he addressed had almost lost the power of speech.

“Frank,” said he, and he wrung his hand, “What—­what? was death among them?  For the sake of heaven, spake!”

The severe pressure which he received in return ran like a shoot, of paralysis to his heart.

“Owen, you must be a man; every one pities yez, and may the Almighty pity and support yez!  She is, indeed, Owen, gone; the weeny fair-haired child, your favorite Alley, is gone.  Yestherday she was berrid; and dacently the nabors attinded the place, and sent in, as far as they had it, both mate and dhrink to Kathleen and the other ones.  Now, Owen, you’ve heard it; trust in God, an’ be a man.”