“Well, Vara, you see me now—­I’m happpier—­before God, I’m happier—­happier, a thousand degrees than I was thin!  Come to my arms, asthore machree—­my heart s breakin’—­but it’s wid happiness—­don’t be frightened—­it’s wid joy I’m sheddin’ these tears—­it’s wid happiness an’ delight In’ cryin’!  Jemmy is livin’, an’ well, childhre—­he’s livin’ an’ well, Vara—­the star of our hearts is livin’, an’ well, an’ happy!  Kneel down, childhre—­kneel down!  Bend before the great God, an’ thank him for his kindness to your blessed brother—­to our blessed son.  Bless the Colonel, childhre; bless him whin you’re down, Protestant an’ all, as he is.  Oh, bless him as if you prayed for myself, or for Jemmy, that’s far away from us!”

He paused for a few minutes, bent his head upon his hands as he knelt in supplication at the chair, then resumed his seat, as did the whole family, deeply affected.

“Now, childhre,” said he, “I’ll tell yez all; but don’t any of you be so poor a crathur as I was to-day.  Bear it mild an’ asy, Vara, acushla, for I know it will take a start out of you.  Sure we’re to go back to our own ould farm!  Ay, an’ what’a more—­oh, God of heaven, bless him!—­what’s more, the Colonel is to stock it for us, an’ to help us; an’ what is more, Yallow Sam is out! out!!”

“Out!” they exclaimed:  “Jemmy well, an’ Yallow Sam out!  Oh, father, surely”—­

“Now behave, I say.  Ay, and never to come in again!  But who do you think got him out?”

“Who?—­why God he knows.  Who could get him out?”

“Our son, Vara—­our son, childhre:  Jemmy got him out, an’ got ourselves back to our farm!  I had it partly from the noble Colonel’s own lips, an’ the remainder from Mr. Moutray, that I met on my way home.  But there’s more to come:—­sure Jemmy has friends aquil to the Colonel himself:  an’ sure he’s at a Catholic boordin’-school, among gintlemen’s childhre, an’ in a short time he’ll be a priest in full ordhers.”

We here draw a veil over the delight of the family.  Questions upon questions, replies upon replies, sifting and cross-examinations, followed in rapid succession, until all was known that the worthy man had to communicate.

Another simple scene followed, which, as an Irishman, I write with sorrow.  When the joy of the family had somewhat subsided, the father, putting his hand in his coat-pocket, pulled out several large slices of mutton.

“Along wid all, childhre,” said he, “the Colonel ordhered me my dinner.  I ate plinty myself, an’ slipped these slices in my pocket for you:  but the devil a one o’ me knows what kind o’ mate it is.  An’ I got wine, too!  Oh!—­Well, they may talk, but wine is the drink!  Bring me the ould knife, till I make a fair divide of it among ye.  Musha, what kind o’ mate can it be, for myself doesn’t remimber atin’ any sort, barrin’ bacon an’ a bit o’ slink-veal of an odd time?”

They all ate it with an experimental air of sagacity that was rather amusing.  None, however, had ever tasted mutton before, and consequently the name of the meat remained, on that occasion, a profound secret to M’Evoy and his family.* It is true, they supposed it to be mutton; but not one of them could pronounce it to be such, from any positive knowledge of its peculiar flavor.