to keep
it. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against
the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.

"Oh, of course it is, Anty," said he; "forgive and forget; that was
always my motto. I'm sure I never bore any malice--indeed I never was
so sorry as when you went away, and--"

"Ah, Barry," said Anty; "it was better I went then; may-be it's all
better as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort,
I won't fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake
to you about."

"If there's anything I can do, I'm sure I'd do it: if there's anything
at all you wish done.--Would you like to come up to the house again?"

"Oh no, Barry, not for worlds."

"Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn't
it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people
here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to
you, eh?--so interested, you know, in everything they do."

"Ah! Barry, you don't know them."

Barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the
Kellys. "I'm sure they're very nice people," said he; "indeed I always
thought so, and said so--but they're not like your own flesh and blood,
are they, Anty?--and why shouldn't you come up and be--"

"No, Barry," said she; "I'll not do that; as they're so very, very kind
as to let me stay here, I'll remain till--till God takes me to himself.
But they're not my flesh and blood"--and she turned round and looked
affectionately in the face of her brother--"there are only the two of
us left now; and soon, very soon you'll be all alone." Barry felt very
uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to say
something, but failed, and Anty went on--"when that time comes, will
you remember what I say to you now?--When you're all alone, Barry; when
there's nothing left to trouble you or put you out--will you think then
of the last time you ever saw your sister, and--"

"Oh, Anty, sure I'll be seeing you again!"

"No, Barry, never again. This is the last time we shall ever meet, and
think how much we ought to be to each other! We've neither of us father
or mother, husband or wife.--When I'm gone you'll be alone: will you
think of me then--and will you remember, remember every day--what I say
to you now?"

"Indeed I will, Anty. I'll do anything, everything you'd have me. Is
there anything you'd wish me to give to any person?"

"B