ity on their
part came too late. Week after week her strength wasted away, in a
manner that was painfully perceptible to those who felt an interest in
her. Her son Ned was still in the country, but had no fixed residence,
and merely remained for the purpose of seeing her freed from all her
miseries, and laid in her last unbroken sleep beside those whom she had
loved so well. On the evening in question, she appeared to be so feeble
and exhausted, that the good priest's family did not for a moment
imagine that any particular vigilance was necessary. Between six and
seven o'clock, then, she had performed the last of those pilgrimages
of the heart which time after time had been made by her to the solitary
church-yard in the mountains--containing, as it did, the only humble
shrine from which her bruised and broken spirit could draw that ideal
happiness, of which God in His mercy had not bereft her.

On arriving at the old ruin, she felt so completely enfeebled, that a
little rest was absolutely necessary previous to her reaching the graves
she came to visit, although they were only a few yards distant from
the spot which afforded the poor creature the requisite shelter while
recruiting her exhausted powers. At length she arose, and having
tottered over to the graves, she sat down, and clasping her hands about
her knees, she rocked her body to and fro, as Irish women do when under
the influence of strong grief. She then chaunted a verse or two of an
old song, whose melancholy notes were not out of keeping with either the
scene or the hour; nor an unsuitable burthen for the wild night breeze
which wailed through the adjoining ruins in tones that might almost
be supposed to proceed from the spirit of death itself, as it kept its
lonely watch over those who lay beneath.

"I wonder," said she, "that they do not speak to me before this,
for they know I'm here. Ah," she proceeded, "there's his voice!--my
white-haired Brian's voice! what is it, 'darling? I'm listenin'!

"'Come, mother, come,' he says, 'we are waitin'!'

"Is it for me, _a lanna dhas oge_?

"'Yes,' he says, 'for you, mother dear, for you!'

"Well, Brian darlin', I'll come.

"'Yes, come,' he says, 'for we are wait-in'!'

"And," she proceeded, "who is this again? ah, sure I needn't ax; Torley,
my heart, I'm here!

"'Come, mother dear,' he says, 'for we are waitin'!'

"Is it for me, my manly son?

"'Yes,' he says, 'for you, mother--mother dear, for you?'