Her mother and brother were both weeping.

Her lover looked down upon her, and, as he hung over the beautiful and insensible girl, the tears which he shed copiously bedewed her face.  After a few minutes she recovered, and her brother, with his usual delicacy, beckoned to his mother to follow him out of the room, knowing that the presence of a third person is always a restraint upon the interchange of even the tenderest and purest affection.  Both, therefore, left them to themselves; and we, in like manner, must allow that delicious interview to be sacred only to themselves, and unprofaned by the gaze or presence of a spectator.  The Bodagh and his wife were highly gratified at the steps their children had taken to provide for the comfort of Fardorougha and his wife.  The next day the whole family paid them a visit, but on seeing the miser, it was clear that his days were numbered.  During the most vigorous and healthy period of his life, he had always been thin and emaciated; but now, when age, illness, the severity of a sis months’ voyage, and, last of all, the hand of death, left their wasting traces upon his person, it would indeed be difficult to witness an image of penury more significant of its spirit.  We must, however, do the old man justice.  Since the loss of his money or rather since the trial and conviction of his son, or probably since the operation of both events upon his heart, he had seldom, if ever, by a single act or expression, afforded any proof that his avarice survived, or was able to maintain its hold upon him, against the shock which awakened the full power of a father’s love.

About ten o’clock, a. m., on the fourth day after their arrival, Connor, who had run over to the Bodagh’s, was hurriedly sent for by his mother, who desired Nelly M’Cormick to say that his father incessantly called for him, and that he must not lose a moment in coming.  He returned immediately with her, and found the old man reclining in bed, supported by his wife, who sat behind him.

“Is my boy comin’?” he said, in a thin, wiry, worn voice, but in words which, to any person near him, were as distinct almost as ever—­“is my boy Connor comin’?”

“I am here, father,” replied Connor, who had just entered the sick room; “sure I am always with you.”

“You are, you are,” said he, “you were ever an’ always good.  Give me your hand, Connor.”

Connor did so.

“Connor, darlin’,” he proceeded, “don’t be like me.  I loved money too much; I set my heart on it, an’ you know how it was taken away from me.  The priest yesterday laid it upon me, out of regard to my reignin’ sin, as he called it, to advise you afore I die against lovin’ the wealth o’ this world too much.”

“I hope I never will, father, your own misfortune ought to be a warnin’ to me.”

“Ay, you may say that; it’s I indeed that was misfortunate; but it was all through P——­an’ that nest o’ robbers, the Isle o’ Man.”