to miss what I can leave him?
If you knew how much it is, you'd snap--; but God help me! what am I
sayin'? I'm poorer than anybody thinks. I am--I am; an' will starve
among you all, if God hasn't sed it. Do you think I don't love my son as
well, an' a thousand times better, than you do your daughter? God alone
sees how my heart's in him--in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore
heart--my brave, my beautiful boy!"

He paused, and the scalding tears here ran down his shrunk and furrowed
cheeks, whilst he wrung his hands, started to his feet, and looked
about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant
destruction.

"If you love your son so well," said John, mildly, "why do you grudge to
share your wealth with him? It is but natural and it is your duty."

"Natural! what's natural?--to give away--is it to love him you mane? It
is, it's unnatural to give it away. He's the best son--the best--what do
you mane, I say?--let me alone--let me alone--I could give him my blood,
my blood--to sich a boy; but, you want to kill me--you want to kill me,
an' thin you'll get all; but he'll cross you, never fear--my boy will
save me--he's not tired of me--he'd give up fifty girls sooner than
see a hair of his father's head injured--so do your best, while I have
Connor, I'm not afraid of yees. Thanks be to God that sent him!" he
exclaimed, dropping suddenly on his knees--"oh, thanks be to God that
sent him to comfort an' protect his father from the schames and villainy
of them that 'ud bring him to starvation for their own ends!"

"Father," said John, in a low tone, "this struggle between avarice and
natural affection is awful. See how his small gray eyes glare, and the
froth rises white to his thin shrivelled lips. What is to be done?"

"Fardorougha," said the Bodagh, "it's over; don't distress
yourself--keep your money--there will be no match between our childhre."

"Why? why won't there?" he screamed--"why won't there, I say? Havn't
you enough for them until I die? Would you see your child breakin' her
heart? Bodagh, you have no nather in you--no bowels for your _colleen
dahs_. But I'll spake for her--I'll argue wid you till this time
to-morrow, or I'll make you show feelin' to her--an' if you don't--if
you don't--"

"Wid the help o' God, the man's as mad as a March hare," observed Mrs.
O'Brien, "and there's no use in losin' breath wid him."

"If it's not insanity," said John, "I know not what it is."

"Yo