“Poor woman!” said he, as they approached her, “this chilly night will be a severe trial upon her.”
“What wouldn't I give, my dear mother,—oh, what wouldn't I give,” said Ned, tenderly taking her hand, “to see your senses restored to you!”
“Thank the Almighty, then!” she returned feebly—“what!—my darling son Ned! and Father Roche! Oh, was I not right in sayin' that there is nothing too powerful for God's strength and love?” she exclaimed; she then kissed her son, who burst into tears, and tenderly embraced her.
“See how unexpectedly He can surround even this cowld death-bed with his mercy.”
“Don't say a death-bed”, my dear mother, for now that the blight of raison has left you, I hope you'll get new strength.”
“I will,” she replied, with a feeble but Mournful smile, “I will Ned; but it'll be in heaven with them I love, and that love me. My dear Ned, all my cares are now over—my affections past—I will soon be out of sorrow and out of pain: this heart will suffer no more, and this head will no longer be distracted! Oh, the hopes of heaven, but they're sweet and consolin' on the bed of death!”
“Cherish them, dear Mary,” said Father Roche; “for I believe you will soon—very soon indeed—realize them. Her pulse,” he added, “is scarcely perceptible, and you hear how very feeble her voice is.”
“What are we to do, then?” asked her son; “do you think, my dear mother, that you could bear removal?”
“No—ah, no,”—she replied, “No—I feel that I am going fast—my feet and limbs are like marble, and the cowld is gettin' into my heart.”
“Ah, my darling mother,” said the son, in tears, “but that was the warm and the lovin' heart!”