“The child’s in my heart still,” said Owen, suppressing his emotion; “thinkin’ of the unfortunate mornin’ I wint to Dublin, brings her back to me.  I see her standin’, wid her fair pale face—­pale—­oh, my God!—­wid hunger an’ sickness—­her little thin clo’es, an’ her goolden hair, tossed about by the dark blast—­the tears in her eyes, an’ the smile, that she once had, on her face—­houldin’ up her mouth, an’ sayin’ ‘Kiss me agin, father;’ as if she knew, somehow, that I’d never see her, nor her me, any more.  An’ whin I looked back, as I was turnin’ the corner, there she stood, strainin’ her eyes after her father, that she was then takin’ the last sight of until the judgment-day.”

His voice here became broken, and he sat in silence for a few minutes.

“It’s sthrange,” he added, with more firmness, “how she’s so often in my mind!”

“But, Owen, dear,” replied Kathleen, “sure it was the will of God that she should lave us.  She’s now a bright angel in heaven, an’ I dunna if it’s right—­indeed, I doubt it’s sinful for us to think so much about her.  Who knows but her innocent spirit is makin’ inthercession for us all, before the blessed Mother o’ God!  Who knows but it was her that got us the good fortune that flowed in upon us, an’ that made our strugglin’ an’ our laborin’ turn out so lucky.”

The idea of being lucky or unlucky is, in Ireland, an enemy to industry.  It is certainly better that the people should believe success in life to be, as it is, the result of virtuous exertion, than of contingent circumstances, over which they themselves have no control.  Still there was something beautiful in the superstition of Kathleen’s affections; something that touched the heart and its! dearest associations.

“It’s very true, Kathleen,” replied her husband; “but God is ever ready to help them that keeps an honest heart, an’ do everything in their power to live creditably.  They may fail for a time, or he may thry them for awhile, but sooner or later good, intintions and honest labor will be rewarded.  Look at ourselves—­blessed be his name!”

“But whin do you mane to go to Tubber Derg, Owen!”

“In the beginnin’ of the next week.  An’, Kathleen, ahagur, if you remimber the bitther mornin’ we came upon the world—­but we’ll not be spakin’ of that now.  I don’t like to think of it.  Some other time, maybe, when we’re settled among our ould friends, I’ll mintion it.”

“Well, the Lord bliss your endayvors, anyhow!  Och, Owen, do thry an’ get us a snug farm somewhere near them.  But you didn’t answer me about Alley, Owen?”

“Why, you must have your wish, Kathleen, although I intended to keep that place for myself.  Still we can sleep one on aich side of her; an’ that may be aisily done, for our buryin’-ground is large:  so set your mind at rest on that head.  I hope God won’t call us till we see our childhre settled dacently in the world.  But sure, at all evints, let his blessed will be done!”