“Well, it’s one comfort, that nobody knows it but ourselves.  The poor childhre, for their own sakes, won’t ever breathe it; so that it’s likely the sacret ’ll be berrid wid us.”

“I hope so, acushla.  Does this coat sit asy atween the shouldhers?  I feel it catch me a little.”

“The sorra nicer.  There; it was only your waistcoat that was turned down in the collar.  Here—­hould your arm.  There now—­it wanted to be pulled down a little at the cuffs.  Owen, it’s a beauty; an’ I think I have good right to be proud of it, for it’s every thread my own spinnin’.”

“How do I look in it, Kathleen?  Tell me thruth, now.”

“Throth, you’re twenty years younger; the never a day less.”

“I think I needn’t be ashamed to go afore my ould friends in it, any way.  Now bring me my staff, from undher the bed above; an’, in the name o’ God, I’ll set out.”

“Which o’ them, Owen?  Is it the oak or the blackthorn?”

“The oak, acushla.  Oh, no; not the blackthorn.  It’s it that I brought to Dublin wid me, the unlucky thief, an’ that I had while we wor a shaughran.  Divil a one o’ me but ’ud blush in the face, if I brought it even in my hand afore them.  The oak, ahagur; the oak.  You’ll get it atween the foot o’ the bed an’ the wall.”

When Kathleen placed the staff in his hand, he took off his hat and blessed himself, then put it on, looked at his wife, and said—­“Now darlin’, in the name o’ God, I’ll go.  Husht, avillish machree, don’t be cryin’; sure I’ll be back to you in a week.”

“Och!  I can’t help it, Owen.  Sure this is the second time you wor ever away from me more nor a day; an’ I’m thinkin’ of what happened both to you an’ me, the first time you wint.  Owen, acushla, I feel that if anything happened you, I’d break my heart.”

“Arrah, what ‘ud happen me, darlin’, wid God to protect me?  Now, God be wid you, Kathleen dheelish, till I come back to you wid good news, I hope.  I’m not goin’ in sickness an’ misery, as I wint afore, to see a man that wouldn’t hear my appale to him; an’ I’m lavin’ you comfortable, agrah, an’ wantin’ for nothin’.  Sure it’s only about five-an’-twenty miles from this—­a mere step.  The good God bless an’ take care of you, my darlin’ wife, till I come home to you!”

He kissed the tears that streamed from her eyes; and, hemming several times, pressed her hand, his face rather averted, then grasped his staff, and commenced his journey.

Scenes like this were important events to our humble couple.  Life, when untainted by the crimes and artificial manners which destroy its purity, is a beautiful thing to contemplate among the virtuous poor; and, where the current of affection runs deep and smooth, the slightest incident will agitate it.  So it was with Owen M’Carthy and his wife.  Simplicity, truth, and affection, constituted their character.  In them there was no complication of incongruous elements.  The order of their virtues was not broken, nor the purity of their affections violated, by the anomalous blending together of opposing principles, such as are to be found in those who are involuntarily contaminated by the corruption of human society.