“Think of them, darlin'. There now, part with him. This world, I often tould you dear, Mary, is not our place, but our passage; an' although it's painful let us not forget that it is God Himself that is guidin' and directin' us through it. Come, Con dear, come.”
A long mournful embrace, and another sorrowful but fervent blessing, and with a feeble effort at consolation, Dalton parted with the weeping girl; and placing his hat on his white head, he gave one long look—one indescribable look—upon all that was so dear to him in this scene of unutterable misery, and departed. He had not gone far, however, when he returned a step or two towards the door; and Mary, having noticed this, went to him, and throwing her arms once more about his neck, exclaimed:
“Oh! Father, darlin' an' is it come to this? Oh, did we ever complain or grumble about all we suffered, while we had you wid us? no, we wouldn't. What was our sufferins, father, dear—nothing. But, oh, nothing ever broke our hearts, or troubled us, but to see you in sich sorrow.”
“It's thrue, Mary darlin'; you wor all—all a blessin' to me; but I feel, threasure of my heart, that my sorrows an' my cares will soon be over. It's about Tom I come back. Och, sure I didn't care what he or we might suffer, if it had plased God to lave him in his senses; but maybe now he's happier than we are. Tell him—if he can understand it, or when he does understand it—that I lave my blessin' and God's blessin' with him for evermore—for evermore: an' with you all; an' with you, too, young woman, for evermore, amen! And now come; I submit myself to the will of my marciful Saviour.”
He looked up to heaven as he spoke, his two hands raised aloft; after which he covered his venerable head, and, with this pious and noble instance of resignation, did the affectionate old man proceed, as well as his feeble limbs could support him, to the county prison, accompanied by his pious and truly Christian wife.
As the men were about to go, he who had addressed Sarah so rudely, approached her with as much regret on his face as its hardened and habitual indifference to human misery could express, and said, tapping her on the shoulder:
“I was rather rough to you, jist now, my purty girl—to' be jabers, it' is you that is the purty girl. I dunna, by the way, how the ould Black Prophet came by the likes o' you; but, then he was a handsome vagabond in his day, himself, an' you are like him.”
“What do you want to say?” she asked, impatiently; “but stand outside, I won't speak to you here—your voice would waken a corpse. Here, now,” she added, having gone out upon the causeway, “what is it?”
“Why, devil a thing,” he replied; “only you're a betther girl than I tuck you to be. It's a pitiful case, this—a woful case at his time o' life. Be heaventhers, but I'd rather a thousand times see Black Boy, your own precious father, swing, than this poor ould man.”
A moment's temporary fury was visible, but she paused, and it passed away; after which she returned slowly and thoughtfully into the cabin.