“I think he's wandherin',” whispered his mother. “Oh grant it may be so, marciful Jasus this day!”
“Honor ahagur.”
“Well, darlin', what is it?”
“There's another thing that throubles me—I never knew what it was to feel myself far from my own till now.”
“How is that, dear?”
“My bones won't rest in my own counthry; I won't sleep wid them that belong to me. How will I lie in a strange grave, and in a far land? Oh, will no one bring me back to my own?”
The untutored sympathies of neither wife nor son could resist this beautiful and affecting trait of nature, and the undying love of one's own land, emanating, as it did, so unexpectedly, from a heart otherwise insensible to the ordinary tendernesses of life.
“Sure you are at home, avourneen,” said Honor; “an' will rest wid your friends and relations that have gone before you.”
“No,” said he, “I'm not, I'm far away from them, but now I feel more comforted; I have one wid me that's dearer to me than them all. Connor and I will sleep together, won't we, Connor?”
This affectionate transition from every other earthly object to himself, so powerfully smote the son's heart that he could not reply.