Martin’s eyes were affected, too:  he made a desperate struggle to repress the weakness, but he could not succeed, and was obliged to own it by rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.  “And I’m shure, Anty,” said he, “we all love you; any one must love you who knew you.”  And then he paused:  he was trying to say something of his own true personal regard for her, but he hardly knew how to express it.  “We all love you as though you were one of ourselves—­and so you are—­it’s all the same—­at any rate it is to me.”

“And I would have been one of you, had I lived.  I can talk to you more about it now, Martin, than I ever could before, because I know I feel I am dying.”

“But you mustn’t talk, Anty; it wakens you, and you’ve had too much talking already this day.”

“It does me good, Martin, and I must say what I have to say to you.  I mayn’t be able again.  Had it plazed God I should have lived, I would have prayed for nothing higher or betther than to be one of such a family as yourselves.  Had I been—­had I been”—­and now Anty blushed again, and she also found a difficulty in expressing herself; but she soon got over it, and continued, “had I been permitted to marry you, Martin, I think I would have been a good wife to you.  I am very, very sure I would have been an affectionate one.”

“I’m shure you would—­I’m shure you would, Anty.  God send you may still:  av you war only once well again there’s nothing now to hindher us.”

“You forget Barry,” Anty said, with a shudder.  “But it doesn’t matther talking of that now”—­Martin was on the point of telling her that Barry had agreed, under certain conditions, to their marriage:  but, on second thoughts, he felt it would be useless to do so; and Anty continued,

“I would have done all I could, Martin.  I would have loved you fondly and truly.  I would have liked what you liked, and, av I could, I would’ve made your home quiet and happy.  Your mother should have been my mother, and your sisthers my sisthers.”

“So they are now, Anty—­so they are now, my own, own Anty—­they love you as much as though they were.”

“God Almighty bless them for their goodness, and you too, Martin.  I cannot tell you, I niver could tell you, how I’ve valued your honest thrue love, for I know you have loved me honestly and thruly; but I’ve always been afraid to spake to you.  I’ve sometimes thought you must despise me, I’ve been so wake and cowardly.”

“Despise you, Anty?—­how could I despise you, when I’ve always loved you?”

“But now, Martin, about poor Barry—­for he is poor.  I’ve sometimes thought, as I’ve been lying here the long long hours awake, that, feeling to you as I do, I ought to be laving you what the ould man left to me.”

“I’d be sorry you did, Anty.  I’ll not be saying but what I thought of that when I first looked for you, but it was never to take it from you, but to share it with you, and make you happy with it.”