“You must take little Patsy away,” said Owen in a whisper, as he lifted the boy in his arms; “she's happy now.”
The young man fell upon his knees and kissed the corpse, but spoke not a word; grief had stupified his senses, and he was like one but half awake. “Come with me, Martin; come with me, and I'll settle every thing for you.” He obeyed mechanically, and before quitting the cabin, placed some turf upon the fire, as he was wont to do. The action was a simple one, but it brought the tears into Owen's eyes. “I'll take care of Patsy for you till you want him. He's fond of me of ould, and won't be lonesome with me;” and Owen wrapped the child in his greatcoat, and moved forwards.
When they had advanced a few paces, Martin stopped suddenly and muttered, “She has nothing to drink!” and then, as if remembering vaguely what had happened, added, “It's a long sleep, Ellen dear!”
Owen gave the directions for the funeral, and leaving poor Martin in the house of one of the cottiers near, where he sat down beside the hearth, and never uttered a word; he went on his way, with little Patsy still asleep within his arms.
“Where are you going, Peggy?” asked Owen, as an old lame woman moved past as rapidly as her infirmity would permit: “you're in a hurry this morning.”
“So I am, Owen Connor—these is the busy times wid me—I streaked five to-day, early as it is, and I'm going now over to Phil Joyce's. What's the matter wid yourself, Owen? sit down, avich, and taste this.”
“What's wrong at Phil's?” asked Owen, with a choking fulness in his throat.
“It's the little brother he has; Billy's got it, they say.