whether it's good or bad! Amin, Jasus,
this day!"

She had hardly uttered the last words, when O'Brien entered.

"Young man," said this superior woman, '"it's a poor welcome we can give
you to a house of sorrow."

"Ay," said Fardorougha, "his mother an' I's here, but where is he? Nine
days from this; but it 'ill kill me--it will--it will. Whin he's taken
from me, I don't care how soon I folly him; God forgive me if it's a sin
to say so!"

"Fardorougha," said his wife, in a tone of affectionate reproof,
"remember what you promised me, an', at all evints, you forget that Mr.
O'Brien here may have his own troubles; I heard your sister was unwell.
Oh, how is she, poor thing?"

"I thank you, a great deal better; I will not deny but she heard a piece
of intelligence this day, that has relieved her mind and taken a dead
weight off her heart."

Honor, with uncommon firmness and solemnity of manner, placed her hand
upon his shoulder, and, looking him earnestly in the face, said,

"That news is about our son?"

"It is," replied O'Brien, "and it's good; his sentence is changed, and
he is not to die."

"Not to die!" shrieked the old man, starting up, and clapping his hands
frantically--"not to die! our son--Connor, Connor--not to be hanged--not
to be hanged! Did you say that, son of O'Brien Buie, did you--did you?"

"I did," replied the other; "he will not suffer."

"Now that's God," ejaculated Fardorougha, wildly; "that's God an' his
mother's prayers. Boys," he shrieked, "come here; come here, Biddy
Nulty, come her; Connor's not to die; he won't suffer--he won't suffer!"

He was rushing wildly to the door, but Honor placed herself before him,
and said, in that voice of calmness which is uniformly that of authority
and power:

"Fardorougha, dear, calm yourself. If this is God's work, as you say,
why not resave it as comm' from God? It's upon your two knees you ought
to drop, an'--Saver above, what's the matther wid him? He's off; keep
him up. Oh, God bless you! that's it, avourneen; jist place him on the
chair there fornext the door, where he can have air. Here, dear," said
she to Biddy Nulty, who, on hearing herself called by her master, had
come in from another room; "get some feathers, Biddy, till we burn them
undher his nose; but first fetch a jug of cold water."

On looking at the face of the miser, O'Brien started, as indeed well he
might, at such a pallid, worn, and death--like countenance; why, thought
he