ung man," proceeded Fardorougha, who evidently paid no attention to
what the mother and son said, being merely struck by the voice of the
latter, "young man, you're kind, you have sinse and feelin'--spake to
your father--don't let him destroy his child--don't ax him to starve
me, that never did him harm. He loves you--he loves you, for he can't
but love you--sure, I know how I love my own darlin' boy. Oh, spake to
him--here I go down on my knees to you, to beg, as you hope to see God
in heaven, that't you'll make him not break his daughter's heart! She's
your own sister--there's but the two of yees, an' oh, don't desart her
in this throuble--this heavy, heavy throuble!"

"I won't interfere farther in it," replied the young man, who, however,
felt disturbed and anxious in the extreme.

"Mrs. O'Brien," said he, turning imploringly, and with a wild, haggard
look to the Bodngh's wifs, "I'm turnin' to you--you're her mother--Oh
think, think"--

"I'll think no more about it," she replied. "You're mad, an' thank God,
we know it. Of coorse it'll run in the family, for which reasing my
daughter 'ill never be joined to the son of a madman."

He then turned as a last resource to O'Brien himself. "Bodagh, Bodagh, I
say," here his voice rose to a frightful pitch, "I enthrate, I order, I
command you to listen to me! Marry them--don't kill your daughter, an'
don't, don't, dare to kill my son. If you do I'll curse you till
the marks of your feet will scorch the ground you tread on. Oh," he
exclaimed, his voice now sinking, and his reason awaking apparently from
exhaustion, "what is come over me? what am I sayin'?--but it's all for
my son, my son." He then rose, sat down, and for more than tweny minutes
wept like an infant, and sobbed and sighed as if his heart would break.

A feeling very difficult to be described hushed his amazed auditory into
silence; they felt something like pity towards the unfortunate old man,
as well as respect for that affection which struggled with such moral
heroism against the frightful vice that attempted to subdue this last
surviving virtue in the breast of the miser.

On his getting calm, they spoke to him kindly, but in firm and friendly
terms communicated their ultimate determination, that, in consequence
of his declining to make an adequate provision for the son, the marriage
could by no means take place. He then got his hat, and attempted to
reach the road which led down to the little lawn, but s