en
sentences, no trait of wandering intellect appeared. His malady was
a common one among those whose fears, greatly excited by the disease,
usually induced symptoms of prostration and debility, as great, if
not as rapid, as those of actual cholera. Meanwhile his thoughts were
alternately turning from his own condition to that of the people in the
glen, for whom he felt the deepest compassion. "God help them!" was his
constant expression. "Sickness is the sore thing; but starvation
makes it dreadful. And so Luke Clancy's dead! Poor ould Luke! he was
seventy-one in Michaelmas. And Martin, too! he was a fine man."

The old man slept, or seemed to sleep, for some hours, and on waking
it was clear daylight. "Owen, dear! I wish," said he, "I could see the
Priest; but you mustn't lave me: I couldn't bear that now."

Poor Owen's thoughts were that moment occupied on the same subject,
and he was torturing himself to think of any means of obtaining Father
John's assistance, without being obliged to go for him himself.

"I'll go, and be back here in an hour--ay, or less," said he, eagerly;
for terrible as death was to him, the thought of seeing his father die
unanointed, was still more so.

"In an hour--where'll I be in an hour, Owen dear? the blessed Virgin
knows well, it wasn't my fault--I'd have the Priest av I could--and
sure, Owen, you'll not begrudge me masses, when I'm gone. What's that?
It's like a child crying out there."

"'T'is poor Martin's little boy I took home with me--he's lost father
and mother this day;" and so saying, Owen hastened to see what ailed
the child. "Yer sarvent, sir," said Owen, as he perceived a stout-built,
coarse-looking man, with a bull-terrier at his heels, standing in the
middle of the floor; "Yer sarvent, sir. Who do ye want here?"

"Are you Owen Connor?" said the man, gruffly.

"That same," replied Owen, as sturdily.

"Then this is notice for you to come up to Mr. Lucas's office in Galway
before the twenty-fifth, with your rent, or the receipt for it, which
ever you like best."

"And who is Mr. Lucas when he's at home?" said Owen, half-sneeringly.

"You'll know him when you see him," rejoined the other, turning to leave
the cabin, as he threw a printed paper on the dresser; and then, as if
thinking he had not been formal enough in his mission, added, "Mr.
Lucas is agent to your landlord, Mr. Leslie; and I'll give you a bit of
advice, keep a civil tongue in your head with him, and