ss the weakness, but he could not succeed, and was obliged to own
it by rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "And I'm shure,
Anty," said he, "we all love you; any one must love you who knew you."
And then he paused: he was trying to say something of his own true
personal regard for her, but he hardly knew how to express it. "We all
love you as though you were one of ourselves--and so you are--it's all
the same--at any rate it is to me."

"And I would have been one of you, had I lived. I can talk to you more
about it now, Martin, than I ever could before, because I know I feel I
am dying."

"But you mustn't talk, Anty; it wakens you, and you've had too much
talking already this day."

"It does me good, Martin, and I must say what I have to say to you. I
mayn't be able again. Had it plazed God I should have lived, I would
have prayed for nothing higher or betther than to be one of such a
family as yourselves. Had I been--had I been"--and now Anty blushed
again, and she also found a difficulty in expressing herself; but she
soon got over it, and continued, "had I been permitted to marry you,
Martin, I think I would have been a good wife to you. I am very, very
sure I would have been an affectionate one."

"I'm shure you would--I'm shure you would, Anty. God send you may
still: av you war only once well again there's nothing now to hindher
us."

"You forget Barry," Anty said, with a shudder. "But it doesn't matther
talking of that now"--Martin was on the point of telling her that Barry
had agreed, under certain conditions, to their marriage: but, on second
thoughts, he felt it would be useless to do so; and Anty continued,

"I would have done all I could, Martin. I would have loved you fondly
and truly. I would have liked what you liked, and, av I could, I
would've made your home quiet and happy. Your mother should have been
my mother, and your sisthers my sisthers."

"So they are now, Anty--so they are now, my own, own Anty--they love
you as much as though they were."

"God Almighty bless them for their goodness, and you too, Martin. I
cannot tell you, I niver could tell you, how I've valued your honest
thrue love, for I know you have loved me honestly and thruly; but I've
always been afraid to spake to you. I've sometimes thought you must
despise me, I've been so wake and cowardly."

"Despise you, Anty?--how could I despise you, when I've always loved
you?"

"But now, Martin, about poor Barry--for he