“Well, Mag,” said he, “are you sorry for not marryin' Mark Hanratty?”
She looked at him, and then at their beautiful babe, which was his image, and her lip quivered for a moment; she then smiled, and kissing the infant, left a tear upon its face.
He started, “My God, Margaret,” said he, “what is this?”
“If that happy tear,” she replied, “is a proof of it, I am.”
Art stooped, and kissing her tenderly, said—“May God make me, and keep me worthy of you, my darling wife!”
“Still, Art,” she continued, “there is one slight drawback upon my happiness, and that is, when it comes into my mind that in marryin' you, I didn't get a parent's blessin'; it sometimes makes my mind sad, and I can't help feelin' so.”
“I could wish you had got it myself,” replied her husband, “but you know it can't be remedied now.”
“At all events,” she said, “let us live so as that we may desarve it; it was my first and last offence towards my father and mother.”
“And it's very few could say as much, Mag, dear; but don't think of it, sure, may be, he may come about yet.”
“I can hardly hope that,” she replied, “after the priest failin'.”