Having thus taken the medal, and pledged himself to sobriety, and a total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors, his first feeling was very difficult to describe.  Father Matthew’s words, though few and brief, had sunk deep into his heart, and penetrated his whole spirit.  He had been for many a long day the jest and jibe of all who knew him; because they looked upon his recovery as a hopeless thing, and spoke to him accordingly in a tone of contempt and scorn—­a lesson to us that we never should deal harshly with the miserable.  Nor, however, he had been addressed in accents of kindness, and in a voice that proclaimed an interest in his welfare.  This, as we said, added to the impressive spirit that prevailed around, touched him, and he hurried home.

On reaching his almost empty house, he found Margaret and the children there before him; she having come to see how the poor things fared—­but being quite ignorant of what had just taken place with regard to her husband.

“Art,” said she, with her usual affectionate manner; “you will want something to eat; for if you’re not hungry, your looks! belie you very much.  I have brought something for you and these creatures.”

Art looked at her, then at their children, then at the utter desolation of the house, and spreading his two hands over his face, he wept aloud.  This was repentance.  Margaret in exceeding surprise, rose and approached him:—­

“Art dear,” she said, “in the name of God, what’s the matter?”

“Maybe my father’s sick, mother,” said little Atty; “sure, father, if you are, I an’ the rest will go out ourselves, an’ you can stay at home; but we needn’t go this day, for my mammy brought us as much as will put us over it.”

To neither the mother nor child did he make any reply; but wept on and sobbed as if his heart would break.

“Oh my God, my God,” he exclaimed bitterly, “what have I brought you to, my darlin’ wife and childre, that I loved a thousand times betther than my own heart?  Oh, what have I brought you to?”

“Art,” said his wife, and her eye kindled, “in the name of the heavenly God, is this sorrow for the life you led?”

“Ah, Margaret darlin’,” he said, still sobbing; “it’s long since I ought to a felt it; but how can I look back on that woful life?  Oh my God, my God! what have I done, an’ what have I brought on you!”

“Art,” she said, “say to me that you’re sorry for it; only let my ears hear you saying the words.”

“Oh, Margaret dear,” he sobbed, “from my heart—­from the core of my unhappy heart—­I am sorry—­sorry for it all.”

“Then there’s hope,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and looking up to heaven, “there is hope—­for him—­for him—­for us all!  Oh my heart,” she exclaimed, quickly, “what is this?” and she scarcely uttered the words, when she sank upon the ground insensible—­sudden joy being sometimes as dangerous as sudden grief.