“Why, darlin'?”
“Bekase, you know, he'd go to heaven, and I'd like to be wid him; sure he'd miss me—his own Atty—wherever he'd be.”
“And so you'd lave me and your sisters, Atty, and go to heaven with your father!”
The boy seemed perplexed; he looked affectionately at his mother, and said—
“No, mammy, I wouldn't wish to lave you, for then you'd have no son at all; no, I wouldn't lave you—I don't know what I'd do—I'd like to stay wid you, and I'd like to go wid him, I'd—”
“Well, darlin', you won't be put to that trial this many a long day, I hope.”
Just then voices were heard at the door, which both recognized as those of Art and Mat Mulrennan the apprentice.
“Now, darlin',” said the mother, who observed that the child was pale and drowsy-looking, “you may go to bed, I see you are sleepy, Atty, not bein' accustomed to sit up so late; kiss me, an' good-night.” He then kissed her, and sought the room where he slept.
Margaret, after the boy had gone, listened a moment, and became deadly pale, but she uttered no exclamation; on the contrary, she set her teeth, and compressed her lips closely together, put her hand on the upper part of her forehead, and rose to go to the door. She was not yet certain, but a dreadful terror was over her—Could it be possible that he was drunk?—she opened it, and the next moment her husband, in a state of wild intoxication, different from any in which she had ever seen him, come in. He was furious, but his fury appeared to have been directed against the apprentice, in consequence of having returned home so late.
On witnessing with her own eyes the condition in which he returned, all her presentiments flashed on her, and her heart sank down into a state of instant hopelessness and misery.