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

"'Yes, come,' he says, 'for we are waitin'?'

"Ah," she proceeded, "here is my own Hugh, my brave husband, that I
fought for, what does he say? Whisht!

"'Come, Mary dear--come, the distracted, the lovin,' but the
heart-broken--come to us, my fair-haired Mary, for we are waitin'; our
hearts love you even 'in heaven, and long for you to be with us.'

"Husband of my heart, I will come; and here sure I feel as you all do
in heaven--for there is one thing that nothing can kill, and will never
die, that is the light that's in a lovin' wife's heart--the light that
shines in a mother's love--Hugh, _asthore machree_, I'll come, for sure
I'm jist ready.

"You are not sick now, Brian," she proceeded; "it isn't the cowld
pratee, and the black sickenin' bog water you have there!

"'No, mother dear,' he said, 'but we want you; oh, don't stay away from
us, for our hearts long for you.'

"I will come, avillish--sure I'm jist ready. Torley," she proceeded,
sustaining a dialogue that proceeded, as it were, out of the accumulated
affection of a heart whose tenderness shed its light where that of
reason failed,--"Torley, my manly son, your young cheek is not pale
now, nor your eye dim--you don't fear the hard-hearted. Agent, nor his
bloodhounds, nor the cowld and bitther storm that beat upon your poor
head, an' you dyin'--you don't fear them now, my brave boy--you neither
feel nor fear any of these things now, Torley, my son!

"'No mother,' he says 'all we want now is to have you wid us. Our hearts
long for you, and why do you stay away from us?--Oh! come mother dear,
for we're waitin'!'

"Torley, my manly son, I'll come, for I'm jist ready.

"Hugh, husband of my heart, you're not now lyin' sick upon the damp
cowld straw, as you war in the cabin on the mountains--your head has no
pain now, avick machree--nor is your heart low and sorrowful wid your
own illness and our want.--The voices of the Dashers, or Blood-hounds,
aren't now in your ears, nor need you be afraid that they will disturb
your bed of death--an' distract your poor sowl wid their blasphemin',
when you ought to think of God's mercy.--Oh! no, avillish, sure you feel
none of that now, Hugh dear?

"'Oh, no,' he says, 'nothing of that do we feel now--nothing of that do
we fear. But, come, Mary, oh, come, come to us--and we think the time
long till we see you again.'"

These affecting dialogues, or rather "dreams of a broken heart,"