of her loss, she clasped
her hands together, and rose up with something of a hasty movement. She
looked about the miserable cabin for a moment, and then peered into
the face of every one in the room--all of whom, with the exception of
Raymond, were in tears. She then pressed her temples, as if striving
to recollect what had happened--sat down again beside her husband and
child, and to their astonishment began to sing an old and melancholy
Irish air, in a voice whose wild sweetness was in singular keeping with
its mournful spirit.

To the bystanders this was more affecting a thousand times than the most
vehement and outrageous grief. Father Roche, however, who had had a
much more comprehensive experience than his companion, knew, or at least
hoped that it would not last long.

Several of the neighbors, having seen the dead body of the constable
borne away, suspected that something extraordinary had occurred on the
mountain, and consequently came flocking to the cabin, anxious to
know the truth. By this means, their acquaintances were brought
about them--aid in every shape, as far as it could be afforded, was
administered, and in a short time they had a little stock of meal,
butter, milk, candles, and such other simple comforts as their poor
friends and neighbors had to bestow. Such is the usual kindness of
the Irish people to each other in moments of destitution and sorrow.
Nothing, on the present occasion, could surpass their anxiety in
ascertaining the wants of this unhappy family: and in such circumstances
it is that the honest prompting of the humble heart, and its sincere
participation in the calamities of its kindred poor, are known to shine
forth with a lustre, which nothing but its distance from the observation
of the great, or their own wilful blindness to it, could prevent it from
being seen and appreciated as it ought.

Having seen her surrounded by friends and neighbors, Father Roche, after
first offering as far as he thought he could reasonably attempt it, some
kind advice and consolation, prepared to take his departure with Harman,
leaving Raymond behind them, who indeed refused to go. "No," said he,
"I can feed Dickey here--but sure they'll want me to run messages--I'm
active and soople, an I'll go to every place, for the widow can't. But
tell me, is the purty boy, the fair haired boy asleep, or what?--tell
me?"

"Why do you ask, Raymond?" said Father Rocche.

"Bekase I love him," replied Raymond, "a