"Darling of my heart," she exclaimed, "I understand you. Bryan, our
treasure, be a man for the sake of your poor heart-broken mother--I
will, I will, my darling life, I will wipe it off of you, every stain of
it--why should such blood and my innocent son come together?"

She now got a cloth, and in a few moments left not a trace of it upon
him. He had not yet spoken, but on finding himself cleansed from it, he
stretched out his hands, thereby intimating that he wished to go to her.

"Do you not perceive a bottle on the shelf there?" said Harman, "it
contains wine which I brought for his--," he checked himself;--"Alas!
my poor boy," he exclaimed involuntarily, "you are doubly dear to
your-mother now. Mix it with water," he proceeded, "and give him a
little, it will strengthen and revive him."

"Better," said Father Roche in a low voice, not intended for his, "to
put him back into his own bed; he is not now in a state to be made
acquainted with his woeful loss." As he spoke the boy glanced at the
corpse of his father, and almost at the same moment his mother put wine
and water to his lips. He was about to taste it, but on looking into
the little tin porringer that contained it, he put it away from him, and
shuddered strongly.

"It's mixed with the blood," said he, "and I can't;" and again he put it
away from him.

"Bryan, asthore," said his mother, "it's not blood; sure it's wine that
Mr. Harman, the blessin' of God be upon him, brought to you."

He turned away again, however, and would not take it. "Bring me to my
father," said he, once more stretching out his arms towards his mother,
"let me stay a while with him."

"But he's asleep, Bryan," said Harman, "and I'm sure you would not wish
to awaken him."

"I would like to kiss him then," he replied, "and to sleep a while with
him."

"Och, let him, poor darling," said his mother, as she took him in her
arms, "it may ease his little heart, and then he'll feel satisfied."

"Well, if you're allowed to go to him won't you lie very quiet, and not
speak so as to disturb him?" said Harman.

"I'm tired," said the child, "and I'd like to sleep in his bed. I used
sometimes to do it before, and my father always kept his arms about me."

His mother's features became convulsed, and she looked up in mute
affliction to heaven; but still, notwithstanding her misery, she was
unable to shed one tear.

"Pulse of my heart" (cushla machree), she said, kissing him, "you
must ha