ather Mulcahy came to administer the rites of the church to
Ellish, he found her in a state of incoherency. Occasional gleams of
reason broke out through the cloud that obscured her intellect, but they
carried with them the marks of a mind knit indissolubly to wealth and
aggrandizement. The same tenor of thought, and the same broken fragments
of ambitious speculation, floated in rapid confusion through the
tempests of delirium which swept with awful darkness over her spirit.

"Mrs. Connell," said he, "can you collect yourself? Strive to compose
your mind, so far as to be able to receive the aids of religion."

"Oh, oh!--my blood's boilin'! Is that--is that Father Mulcahy?"

"It is, dear: strive now to keep your mind calm, till you prepare
yourself for judgment."

"Keep up his head, Paddy--keep up his head, or he'll be smothered undher
the wather an' the sludge. Here, Mike, take this rope: pull, man,--pull,
or the horse will be lost! Oh, my head!--I'm boilin'--I'm burnin'!"

"Mrs. Connell, let me entreat you to remember that you are on the
point of death, and should raise your heart to God, for the pardon and
remission of your sins."

"Oh! Father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded--I intinded--Where's
Pether!--bring, bring--Pether to me!"

"Turn your thoughts to God, now, my dear. Are you clear enough in your
mind for confession?"

"I am, Father! I am, avourneen. Come, come here, Pether! Pether, I'm
goin' to lave you, asthore machree! I could part wid them all but--but
you."

"Mrs. Connell, for Heaven's sake."--.

"Is this--is this--Father Mulcahy? Oh! I'm ill--ill!"--

"It is, dear; it is. Compose yourself and confess your sins."

"Where's Mary? She'll neglect--neglect to lay in a stock o' linen,
although I--I--Oh, Father, avourneen! won't you pity me! I'm sick--oh,
I'm very sick!"

"You are, dear--you are, God help you, very sick, but you'll be better
soon. Could you confess, dear?--do you think you could?"

"Oh, this pain--this pain!--it's killin' me!--Pether--Pether, _a
suillish, machree_, (* The light of my heart) have, have you des--have
you desarted me."

The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she might
feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, called him
in from the next room.

"Here's Peter," said the priest, presenting him to her view--"Here's
Peter, dear."

"Oh! what a load is on me! this pain--this pain is killin' me--won't you
bring me, Pether?