A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the heart.  “Gone!—­the fair-haired one!—­Alley!—­Alley!—­the pride of both our hearts; the sweet, the quiet, and the sorrowful child, that seldom played wid the rest, but kept wid mys—!  Oh, my darlin’, my darlin’! gone from my eyes for ever!—­God of glory; won’t you support me this night of sorrow and misery!”

With a sudden yet profound sense of humility, he dropped on his knees at the threshold, and, as the tears rolled down his convulsed cheeks, exclaimed, in a burst of sublime piety, not at all uncommon among our peasantry—­“I thank you, O my God!  I thank you, an’ I put myself an’ my weeny ones, my pastchee boght (* my poor children) into your hands.  I thank you, O God, for what has happened!  Keep me up and support me—­och, I want it!  You loved the weeny one, and you took her; she was the light of my eyes, and the pulse of my broken heart, but you took her, blessed Father of heaven! an’ we can’t be angry wid you for so doin’!  Still if you had spared her—­if—­if—­O, blessed Father, my heart was in the very one you took—­but I thank you, O God!  May she rest in pace, now and for ever, Amin!”

He then rose up, and slowly wiping the tears from his eyes, departed.

“Let me hould your arm, Frank, dear,” said he, “I’m weak and tired wid a long journey.  Och, an’ can it be that she’s gone—­the fair-haired colleen!  When I was lavin’ home, an’ had kissed them all—­’twas the first time we ever parted, Kathleen and I, since our marriage—­the blessed child came over an’ held up her mouth, sayin’, ’Kiss me agin, father;’ an’ this was afther herself an’ all of them had kissed me afore.  But, och! oh! blessed Mother!  Frank, where’s my Kathleen and the rest?—­and why are they out of their own poor place?”

“Owen, I tould you awhile agone, that you must be a man.  I gave you the worst news first, an’ what’s to come doesn’t signify much.  It was too dear; for if any man could live upon it you could:—­you have neither house nor home, Owen, nor land.  An ordher came from the Agint; your last cow was taken, so was all you had in the world—­hem—­barrin’ a thrifle.  No,—­bad manners to it! no,—­you’re not widout a home anyway.  The family’s in my barn, brave and comfortable, compared to what your own house was, that let in the wather through the roof like a sieve; and, while the same barn’s to the fore, never say you want a home.”

“God bless you, Frank, for that goodness to them and me; if you’re not rewarded for it here you will in a betther place.  Och, I long to see Kathleen and the childher!  But I’m fairly broken down, Frank, and hardly able to mark the ground; and, indeed, no wondher, if you knew but all:  still, let God’s will be done!  Poor Kathleen, I must bear up afore her, or she’ll break her heart; for I know how she loved the golden-haired darlin’ that’s gone from us.  Och, and how did she go, Frank, for I left her betther?”

“Why, the poor girsha took a relapse, and wasn’t strong enough to bear up aginst the last attack; but it’s one comfort that you know she’s happy.”