“Now, my husband,” said she, “we have fought and gained the victory—­no insult did you get—­no dishonor on your lowly bed where you’re sleepin’ your last sleep.  Hugh, do you know, asthore, how the wife of your heart fought for you?  Your own poor, weak, sorrowful, heart-broken, but loving wife, that was as feeble as an infant this mornin’!  But who gave her the strength to put down a strong and wicked man’?  The God—­the good God—­and to him be the glory!—­in whose bosom you are now happy.  Ay, we conquered—­ha—­ha—­ha—­we conquered—­we conquered—­ha—­ha—­ha!”

The dead body of Harpur in the meantime had been removed by his companions, who it was evident felt as much, if not more bitterness at their own defeat, than they did by the fatal accident which deprived him of life.

Scarcely had the wild triumph of O’Regan’s wife time to subside, when it soon became evident that the tragical incidents of this bitter and melancholy morning were not yet completed.

The child alluded to by Harman in his first brief conversation with Father Roche, had been for some time past in a much more dangerous state than his parents suspected, or at least than his unhappy mother did, whose principal care was engrossed by the situation of her husband.  The poor boy, at all times affectionate and uncomplaining, felt loth to obtrude his little wants and sufferings upon her attention, knowing as he did, that, owing to the nursing of his father, she was scarcely permitted three hours sleep out of the twenty-four.  If he could have been afforded even the ordinary comforts of a sick-bed, it is possible he might have recovered.  The only drink he could call for was “the black water,” as it is termed by the people, and his only nutrition a dry potato, which he could not take; the bed he lay upon was damp straw, yet did this patient child never utter a syllable to dishearten his mother, or deepen the gloom which hung over the circumstances of the family, and his father’s heart.  When asked how he was, he uniformly replied “better,” and his large lucid eyes would faintly smile upon his mother, as if to give her hope, after which the desolate boy would amuse himself by handling the bedclothes as invalids often do, or play with the humid straw of his cold and miserable bed, or strive to chat with his mother.

These details are very painful to those whose hearts are so elegantly and fashionably tender that they recoil with humane horror from scenes of humble wretchedness and destitution.  It is good, however, that they should be known to exist, for we assure the great and wealthy that they actually do exist, and may be found in all their sharpness and melancholy truth within the evening shadow which falls from many a proud and wealthy dwelling in this our native land.