“Father, will you try and rest?”
“It's not bad, afther all—I won't starve, as I thought I would, now that the arrighad is got back from the villain. Ha, ha, ha, it's great, Connor, ahagur!”
“What is it, father dear.”
“Connor, sing me a song—my heart's up—it's light—arn't you glad?—sing me a song.”
“If you'll sleep first, father dear.”
“The Uligone, Connor, or Shuilagra, or the Trougha—for, avourneen, avourneen, there must be sorrow in it, for my heart's low, and your mother's heart's in sorrow, an' she's lyin' far from us, an' her boy's not near her, an' her heart's sore, sore, and her head achin', bekase her boy's far from her, and she can't come to him!”
The boy, whose noble fortitude was unshaken during the formidable trial it had encountered in the course of that day, now felt overcome by this simple allusion to his mother's love. He threw his arms about his father's neck, and, placing his head upon his bosom, wept aloud for many, many minutes.
“Hiisth, Connor, husth, asthore—what makes you cry? Sure, all 'ill be right now that we've got back the money. Eh? Ha, ha, ha, it's great luck, Connor, isn't it great? An' you'll have it, you an' Una, afther my death—for I won't starve for e'er a one o' yees.”
“Father, father, I wish you would rest.”
“Well, I will, avick, I will—bring me to bed—you'll sleep in your own bed to-night. Your poor mother's head hasn't been off of the place where your own lay, Connor. No, indeed; her heart's low—it's breakin'—it's breakin'—but she won't let anybody make your bed but herself. Oh, the mother's love, Connor—that mother's love, that mother's love—but, Connor—”