“'Yes, come,' he says, 'for we are waitin'?'
“Ah,” she proceeded, “here is my own Hugh, my brave husband, that I fought for, what does he say? Whisht!
“'Come, Mary dear—come, the distracted, the lovin,' but the heart-broken—come to us, my fair-haired Mary, for we are waitin'; our hearts love you even 'in heaven, and long for you to be with us.'
“Husband of my heart, I will come; and here sure I feel as you all do in heaven—for there is one thing that nothing can kill, and will never die, that is the light that's in a lovin' wife's heart—the light that shines in a mother's love—Hugh, asthore machree, I'll come, for sure I'm jist ready.
“You are not sick now, Brian,” she proceeded; “it isn't the cowld pratee, and the black sickenin' bog water you have there!
“'No, mother dear,' he said, 'but we want you; oh, don't stay away from us, for our hearts long for you.'
“I will come, avillish—sure I'm jist ready. Torley,” she proceeded, sustaining a dialogue that proceeded, as it were, out of the accumulated affection of a heart whose tenderness shed its light where that of reason failed,—“Torley, my manly son, your young cheek is not pale now, nor your eye dim—you don't fear the hard-hearted. Agent, nor his bloodhounds, nor the cowld and bitther storm that beat upon your poor head, an' you dyin'—you don't fear them now, my brave boy—you neither feel nor fear any of these things now, Torley, my son!
“'No mother,' he says 'all we want now is to have you wid us. Our hearts long for you, and why do you stay away from us?—Oh! come mother dear, for we're waitin'!'
“Torley, my manly son, I'll come, for I'm jist ready.
“Hugh, husband of my heart, you're not now lyin' sick upon the damp cowld straw, as you war in the cabin on the mountains—your head has no pain now, avick machree—nor is your heart low and sorrowful wid your own illness and our want.—The voices of the Dashers, or Blood-hounds, aren't now in your ears, nor need you be afraid that they will disturb your bed of death—an' distract your poor sowl wid their blasphemin', when you ought to think of God's mercy.—Oh! no, avillish, sure you feel none of that now, Hugh dear?