The heart-broken wife evinced, for the remainder of the day, a lightness of spirits which she had not felt for many a month before.  Even Owen was less depressed than usual, and employed himself in making such arrangements as he knew would occasion his family to feel the inconvenience of his absence less acutely.  But as the hour of his departure drew nigh, a sorrowful feeling of affection rising into greater strength and tenderness threw a melancholy gloom around his hearth.  According to their simple view of distance, a journey to Dublin was a serious undertaking, and to them it was such.  Owen was in weak health, just risen out of illness, and what was more trying than any other consideration was, that since their marriage they had never been separated before.

On the morning of his departure, he was up before daybreak, and so were his wife and children, for the latter had heard the conversation already detailed between them, and, with their simple-minded parents, enjoyed the gleam of hope which it presented; but this soon changed—­when he was preparing to go, an indefinite sense of fear, and a more vivid clinging of affection marked their feelings.  He himself partook of this, and was silent, depressed, and less ardent than when the speculation first presented itself to his mind.  His resolution, however, was taken, and, should he fail, no blame at a future time could be attached to himself.  It was the last effort; and to neglect it, he thought, would have been to neglect his duty.  When breakfast was ready, they all sat down in silence; the hour was yet early, and a rushlight was placed in a wooden candlestick that stood beside them to afford light.  There was something solemn and touching in the group as they sat in dim relief, every face marked by the traces of sickness, want, sorrow, and affection.  The father attempted to eat, but could not; Kathleen sat at the meal, but could taste nothing; the children ate, for hunger at the moment was predominant over every other sensation.  At length it was over, and Owen rose to depart; he stood for a minute on the floor, and seemed to take a survey of his cold, cheerless house, and then of his family; he cleared his throat several times, but did not speak.

“Kathleen,” said he, at length, “in the name of God I’ll go; and may his blessin’ be about you, asthore machree, and guard you and these darlins till I come back to yez.”

Kathleen’s faithful heart could bear no more; she laid herself on his bosom—­clung to his neck, and, as the parting kiss was given, she wept aloud, and Owen’s tears fell silently down his worn cheeks.  The children crowded about them in loud wailings, and the grief of this virtuous and afflicted family was of that profound description, which is ever the companion, in such scenes, of pure and genuine love.