we
not beggars?"

The old man's head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of his
son's hand, and his outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. "I was
forgetting," murmured he, in a broken voice--"it is as you say--you are
right, Mark--you _must_ go."

Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the young
man's heart; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from despair,
and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist.

"I'll not leave you," said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper:
"there's my hand upon it," and he wrung in his strong grasp the
unresisting fingers of the old man. "That's a promise, father, and now
let us speak no more about it."

"I'll get to my bed, Mark," said the O'Donoghue, as he pressed his
hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since anything
like emotion had moved him, and the conflict of passion had worn and
exhausted him. "Good-night, my boy--my own boy;" and he fell upon the
youth's shoulder, half choked with sobs.

As the O'Donoghue slowly ascended the stairs, towards his bedroom, Mark
threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands. His sorrow
was a deep one. The resolve he had just abandoned, had been for many
a day the cherished dream of his heart--his comfort under every
affliction--his support against every difficulty. To seek his fortune
in some foreign service--to win an honourable name, even though in a
strange land, was the whole ambition of his life; and so engrossed was
he in his own calculations, that he never deigned a thought of what his
father might feel about it. The poverty that eats its way to the heart
of families seldom fails to loosen the ties of domestic affection. The
daily struggle, the hourly conflict with necessity, too often destroy
the delicate and trustful sense of protection that youth should
feel towards age. The energies that should have expanded into homely
affection and mutual regard, are spent in warding off a common enemy;
and with weary minds and seared hearts the gentler charities of life
have few sympathies. Thus was it here. Mark mistook his selfishness
for a feeling of independence; he thought indifference to others meant
confidence in himself--and he was not the first who made the mistake.

Tired with thinking, and harassed with difficulties, through which he
could see no means of escape, he threw open the window, to suffer the
cool night air to blow upon his throbbing temples, an