“It is, it is! I'll never lave you till—till”—
“Is the carman come from Dublin wid—wid the broadcloth?”
“Father of heaven! she's gone back again!” exclaimed the husband.
“Father, jewel! have you no prayers that you'd read for her? You wor ordained for these things, an' comin' from you, they'll have more stringth. Can you do nothin' to save my darlin'?”
“My prayers will not be wanting,” said the priest: “but I am watching for an interval of sufficient calmness to hear her confession; and I very much fear that she will pass in darkness. At all events, I will anoint her by and by. In the meantime, we must persevere a little longer; she may become easier, for it often happens that reason gets clear immediately before death.”
Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears that streamed from his cheeks. At this moment her daughter and son-in-law stole in, to ascertain how she was, and whether the rites of the church had in any degree soothed or composed her.
“Come in, Denis,” said the priest to his nephew, “you may both come in. Mrs. Mulcahy, speak to your mother: let us try every remedy that might possibly bring her to a sense of her awful state.”
“Is she raving still?” inquired the daughter, whose eyes were red with weeping.
The priest shook his head; “Ah, she is—she is! and I fear she will scarcely recover her reason before the judgment of heaven opens upon her!”
“Oh thin may the Mother of Glory forbid that!” exclaimed her daughter—“anything at all but that! Can you do nothin' for her, uncle?”