“Art,” said she, with her usual affectionate manner; “you will want something to eat; for if you're not hungry, your looks! belie you very much. I have brought something for you and these creatures.”
Art looked at her, then at their children, then at the utter desolation of the house, and spreading his two hands over his face, he wept aloud. This was repentance. Margaret in exceeding surprise, rose and approached him:—
“Art dear,” she said, “in the name of God, what's the matter?”
“Maybe my father's sick, mother,” said little Atty; “sure, father, if you are, I an' the rest will go out ourselves, an' you can stay at home; but we needn't go this day, for my mammy brought us as much as will put us over it.”
To neither the mother nor child did he make any reply; but wept on and sobbed as if his heart would break.
“Oh my God, my God,” he exclaimed bitterly, “what have I brought you to, my darlin' wife and childre, that I loved a thousand times betther than my own heart? Oh, what have I brought you to?”
“Art,” said his wife, and her eye kindled, “in the name of the heavenly God, is this sorrow for the life you led?”
“Ah, Margaret darlin',” he said, still sobbing; “it's long since I ought to a felt it; but how can I look back on that woful life? Oh my God, my God! what have I done, an' what have I brought on you!”
“Art,” she said, “say to me that you're sorry for it; only let my ears hear you saying the words.”
“Oh, Margaret dear,” he sobbed, “from my heart—from the core of my unhappy heart—I am sorry—sorry for it all.”