Anty had still hold of her brother’s hand, and seemed desirous to keep it.  He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.

“Oh, of course it is, Anty,” said he; “forgive and forget; that was always my motto.  I’m sure I never bore any malice—­indeed I never was so sorry as when you went away, and—­”

“Ah, Barry,” said Anty; “it was better I went then; may-be it’s all better as it is.  When the priest has been with me and given me comfort, I won’t fear to die.  But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake to you about.”

“If there’s anything I can do, I’m sure I’d do it:  if there’s anything at all you wish done.—­Would you like to come up to the house again?”

“Oh no, Barry, not for worlds.”

“Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house?  These people here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to you, eh?—­so interested, you know, in everything they do.”

“Ah!  Barry, you don’t know them.”

Barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the Kellys.  “I’m sure they’re very nice people,” said he; “indeed I always thought so, and said so—­but they’re not like your own flesh and blood, are they, Anty?—­and why shouldn’t you come up and be—­”

“No, Barry,” said she; “I’ll not do that; as they’re so very, very kind as to let me stay here, I’ll remain till—­till God takes me to himself.  But they’re not my flesh and blood”—­and she turned round and looked affectionately in the face of her brother—­“there are only the two of us left now; and soon, very soon you’ll be all alone.”  Barry felt very uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over:  he tried to say something, but failed, and Anty went on—­“when that time comes, will you remember what I say to you now?—­When you’re all alone, Barry; when there’s nothing left to trouble you or put you out—­will you think then of the last time you ever saw your sister, and—­”

“Oh, Anty, sure I’ll be seeing you again!”

“No, Barry, never again.  This is the last time we shall ever meet, and think how much we ought to be to each other!  We’ve neither of us father or mother, husband or wife.—­When I’m gone you’ll be alone:  will you think of me then—­and will you remember, remember every day—­what I say to you now?”

“Indeed I will, Anty.  I’ll do anything, everything you’d have me.  Is there anything you’d wish me to give to any person?”

“Barry,” she continued, “no good ever came of my father’s will.”—­Barry almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister’s words, so much did they startle him; but he said nothing.—­“The money has done me no good, but the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to gall against me.  Yes, Barry—­yes—­don’t speak now, let me go on;—­the old man brought