from! an' it's well for them, for they'll waken no more to care
an' throuble, and shame! There they lie! see how quiet an' calm they
both lie there, the poor broken branch, an' the little withered flower!"

The old man's search for food in the kitchen had given to the neighbors
the first intimation of their actual distress, and in a few minutes it
was discovered that there was not a mouthful of anything in the house,
nor had they tasted a single morsel since the morning before, when they
took a little gruel which their daughter made for them. In a moment,
with all possible speed, the poor creatures about them either went or
sent for sustenance, and in many a case, almost the last morsel was
shared with them, and brought, though scanty and humble, to their
immediate assistance. In this respect there is not in the world any
people so generous and kind to their fellow-creatures as the Irish,
or whose sympathies are so deep and tender, especially in periods of
sickness, want, or death. It is not the tear alone they are willing to
bestow--oh no--whatever can be done, whatever aid can be given, whatever
kindness rendered, or consolation offered, even to the last poor
shilling, or, "the very bit out of the mouth," as they say themselves,
will be given with a good will, and a sincerity that might in vain
be looked for elsewhere. But alas! they know what it is to want this
consolation and assistance themselves, and hence their promptitude and
anxiety to render them to others. The old man, touched a little by the
affecting language of his wife, began to lose the dull stony look we
have described, and his eyes turned upon those who were about him with
something like meaning, although at that moment it could scarcely be
called so.

"Am I dhramin'?" he asked. "Is this a dhrame? What brings the people
all about us? Where's Alick from us--an' stay--where's her that I loved
best, in spite of her folly? Where's Peggy from me--there's something
wrong wid me--and yet she's not here to take care o' me?"

"Brian, dear," said a poor famished-looking woman approaching him,
"she's in a betther place, poor thing."

"Go long out o' that," he replied, "and don't put your hands on me. It's
Peggy's hands I want to have about me, an' her voice. Where's Peggy's
voice, I say? 'Father, forgive me,' she said, 'forgive me, father, or
I'll never be happy more;' but I wouldn't forgive her, although my heart
did at the same time; still I didn't say the w