“She is better,” said John—“past danger, but still very delicate and feeble. Indeed, she is so much worn down, that you would scarcely know her. The brightness of her dark eye is dead—her complexion gone. Sorrow, as she says herself, is in her and upon her. Never, indeed, was a young creature's love so pure and true.”
O'Donovan made no reply for some time; but the other observed that he turned away his face from him, as if to conceal his emotion. At length his bosom heaved vehemently, three or four times, and his breath came and went with a quick and quivering motion, that betrayed the powerful struggle which he felt.
“I know it is but natural for you to feel deeply,” continued her brother; “but as you have borne everything heretofore with so much firmness, you must not break down—”
“But you know it is a deadly thrial to be forever separated from sich a girl. Sufferin' so much as you say—so worn! Her dark eye dim with—oh, it is, it is a deadly thrial—a heart—breaking thrial! John O'Brien,” he proceeded, with uncommon earnestness, “you are her only brother, an' she is your only sister. Oh, will you, for the sake of God, and for my sake, if I may take the liberty of sayin' so—but, above all things, will you, for her own sake, when I am gone, comfort and support her, and raise her heart, if possible, out of this heavy throuble?”
Her brother gazed on him with a melancholy smile, in which might be read both admiration and sympathy.
“Do you think it possible that I would, or could omit to cherish and sustain poor Una, under such thrying circumstances! Everything considered, however, your words are only natural—only natural.”
“Don't let her think too much about it,” continued O'Donovan. “Bring her out as much as you can—let her not be much by herself. But this is folly in me,” he added; “you know yourself better than I can instruct you how to act.”
“God knows,” replied the brother, struck and softened by the mournful anxiety for her welfare which Connor expressed, “God knows that all you say, and all I can think of besides, shall be done for our dear girl—so make your mind easy.”
“I thank you,” replied the other; “from my soul an' from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. Endeavor to make her forget me, if you can; an' when this passes away out of her mind, she may yet be happy—a happy wife and a happy mother—an' she can then think of her love for Connor O'Donovan, only as a troubled dream that she had in her early life.”
“Connor,” said the other, “this is not right—you must be firmer;” but as he uttered the words of reproof, the tears almost came to his eyes.