She now got a cloth, and in a few moments left not a trace of it upon him. He had not yet spoken, but on finding himself cleansed from it, he stretched out his hands, thereby intimating that he wished to go to her.
“Do you not perceive a bottle on the shelf there?” said Harman, “it contains wine which I brought for his—,” he checked himself;—“Alas! my poor boy,” he exclaimed involuntarily, “you are doubly dear to your-mother now. Mix it with water,” he proceeded, “and give him a little, it will strengthen and revive him.”
“Better,” said Father Roche in a low voice, not intended for his, “to put him back into his own bed; he is not now in a state to be made acquainted with his woeful loss.” As he spoke the boy glanced at the corpse of his father, and almost at the same moment his mother put wine and water to his lips. He was about to taste it, but on looking into the little tin porringer that contained it, he put it away from him, and shuddered strongly.
“It's mixed with the blood,” said he, “and I can't;” and again he put it away from him.
“Bryan, asthore,” said his mother, “it's not blood; sure it's wine that Mr. Harman, the blessin' of God be upon him, brought to you.”
He turned away again, however, and would not take it. “Bring me to my father,” said he, once more stretching out his arms towards his mother, “let me stay a while with him.”
“But he's asleep, Bryan,” said Harman, “and I'm sure you would not wish to awaken him.”
“I would like to kiss him then,” he replied, “and to sleep a while with him.”
“Och, let him, poor darling,” said his mother, as she took him in her arms, “it may ease his little heart, and then he'll feel satisfied.”
“Well, if you're allowed to go to him won't you lie very quiet, and not speak so as to disturb him?” said Harman.