One morning, a few months after this time, as she sat with their lovely babe in her arms, the little rogue playing with the tangles of her raven hair, Art addressed her in the fulness of as affectionate a heart as ever beat in a human bosom:—­

“Well, Mag,” said he, “are you sorry for not marryin’ Mark Hanratty?”

She looked at him, and then at their beautiful babe, which was his image, and her lip quivered for a moment; she then smiled, and kissing the infant, left a tear upon its face.

He started, “My God, Margaret,” said he, “what is this?”

“If that happy tear,” she replied, “is a proof of it, I am.”

Art stooped, and kissing her tenderly, said—­“May God make me, and keep me worthy of you, my darling wife!”

“Still, Art,” she continued, “there is one slight drawback upon my happiness, and that is, when it comes into my mind that in marryin’ you, I didn’t get a parent’s blessin’; it sometimes makes my mind sad, and I can’t help feelin’ so.”

“I could wish you had got it myself,” replied her husband, “but you know it can’t be remedied now.”

“At all events,” she said, “let us live so as that we may desarve it; it was my first and last offence towards my father and mother.”

“And it’s very few could say as much, Mag, dear; but don’t think of it, sure, may be, he may come about yet.”

“I can hardly hope that,” she replied, “after the priest failin’.”

“Well, but,” replied her husband, taking up the child in his arms, “who knows what this little man may do for us—­who knows, some day, but we’ll send a little messenger to his grandfather for a blessin’ for his mammy that he won’t have the heart to refuse.”

This opened a gleam of satisfaction in her mind.  She and her husband having once more kissed the little fellow, exchanged glances of affection, and he withdrew to his workshop.

Every week and month henceforth added to their comfort.  Art advanced in life, in respectability, and independence; he was, indeed, a pattern to all tradesmen who wish to maintain in the world such a character as enforces esteem and praise; his industry was incessant, he was ever engaged in something calculated to advance himself; up early and down late was his constant practice—­no man could exceed, him in punctuality—­his word was sacred—­whatever he said was done; and so general were his habits of industry, integrity, and extreme good conduct appreciated, that he was mentioned as a fresh instance of the high character sustained by all who had the old blood of the Fermanagh Maguires in their veins.  In this way he proceeded, happy in the affections of his admirable wife—­happy in two lovely children—­happy in his circumstances—­in short, every way happy, when, to still add to that happiness, on the night of the very day that closed the term of his oath against liquor—­that closed the seventh year—­his wife presented him with their third child, and second daughter.