“Whisht, dear,” she replied; “don't give way to these curses—they sarve no purpose, Art. But I'm so happy this day!”
“An' is my father never to be drunk any more, mammy?” asked the little ones, joyfully; “an he'll never be angry wid you, nor bate you any more?”
“Whisht, darlins,” she exclaimed; “don't be spakin' about that; sure your poor father never beat me, only when he didn't know what he was doin'. Never mention it again, one of you.”
“Ah, Margaret,” said Art, now thoroughly awakened, “what recompense can I ever make you, for the treatment I gave you? Oh, how can I think of it, or look back upon it?”
His voice almost failed him, as he uttered the last words; but his affectionate wife stooped and kissing away the tears from his cheeks, said—
“Don't, Art dear; sure this now is not a time to cry;” and yet her own tears were flowing;—“isn't our own love come back to us? won't we now have peace? won't we get industrious, and be respected again?”
“Ah, Margaret darling,” he replied, “your love never left you; so don't put yourself in; but as for me—oh, what have I done? and what have I brought you to?”
“Well, now, thanks be to the Almighty, all's right. Here's something for you to ait; you must want it.”
“But,” he replied, “did these poor crathurs get anything? bekase if they didn't, I'll taste nothin' till they do.”
“They did indeed,” said Margaret; and all the little ones came joyfully about him, to assure him that they had been fed, and were not hungry.