“How long has it made you unhappy?”
“For near two-and-twenty years.”
“That's enough,” she replied; “God's hand is in it all—I must now go. I have done what I was axed to do; but there's a higher will at work. Honest woman,” she added, addressing Mrs. Dalton, “I wish you and your childre good night!”
The moment she went they almost ceased to think of her. The pot still hung on the fire, and little time was lost in preparing a meal of food.
From the moment Gra Gal Sullivan's name was mentioned, the whole family observed that young Con started and appeared to become all at once deeply agitated; he walked backwards and forwards—sat down—and rose up—applied his hands to his forehead—appeared sometimes flushed, and again pale—and altogether seemed in a state which it was difficult to understand.
“What is the matter with you, Con?” asked his mother, “you seem dreadfully uneasy.”
“I am ill, mother,” he replied—“the fever that was near taking Tom away, is upon me; I feel that I have it by the pains that's in my head and the small o' my back.”
“Lie down a little, dear,” she added, “its only the pain, poor boy, of an empty stomach—lie down on your poor bed, God help you, and when the supper's ready you'll be better.”
“It's her,” he replied—“it's her—I know it”—and as he uttered the words, touched by her generosity, and the consciousness of his own poverty, he wept bitterly, and then repaired to his miserable bed, where he stretched himself in pain and sorrow.
“Now, Con,” said his wife, in a tone of consolation and encouragement, “will you ever despair of God's mercy, or doubt his goodness, after what has happened?”