arry," she continued, "no good ever came of my father's will."--Barry
almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister's words, so much did
they startle him; but he said nothing.--"The money has done me no good,
but the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to
gall against me. Yes, Barry--yes--don't speak now, let me go on;--the
old man brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you to
look for nothing else; it has not been your fault, and I'm not blaming
you--I'm not maning to blame you, my own brother, for you are my
own"--and she turned round in the bed and shed tears upon his hand, and
kissed it.--"But gold, and land, will never make you happy,--no, not
all the gold of England, nor all the land the old kings ever had could
make you happy, av the heart was bad within you. You'll have it all
now, Barry, or mostly all. You'll have what you think the old man
wronged you of; you'll have it with no one to provide for but yourself,
with no one to trouble you, no one to thwart you. But oh, Barry, av
it's in your heart that that can make you happy--there's nothing before
you but misery--and death--and hell." Barry shook like a child in the
clutches of its master--"Yes, Barry; misery and death, and all the
tortures of the damned. It's to save you from this, my own brother,
to try and turn your heart from that foul love of money, that your
sister is now speaking to you from her grave.--Oh, Barry! try and
cure it. Learn to give to others, and you'll enjoy what you have
yourself.--Learn to love others, and then you'll know what it is to be
loved yourself. Try, try to soften that hard heart. Marry at once,
Barry, at once, before you're older and worse to cure; and you'll have
children, and love them; and when you feel, as feel you must, that the
money is clinging round your soul, fling it from you, and think of the
last words your sister said to you."

The sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for the
mixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touched
him; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. No; in
that foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembled
with fear as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, swore
to her that he would do just as she would have him.

"If I could but think," continued she, "that you would remember what I
am saying--"

"Oh, I will, Anty: I will--indeed, indeed, I will!"

"If I