God; for, if
you do it wanst or twist, you'll begin by degrees to get careless--thin,
bit by bit, asthore, your heart will harden, your conscience will leave
you, an' wickedness, an' sin, an' guilt will come upon you. It's no
matter, asthore, how much wicked comrades may laugh an' jeer at you,
keep you thrue to the will of your good God, an' to your religious
duties, an' let them take their own coorse. Will you promise me to do
this, _avuillish machree?_"

"Mother, I have always sthrove to do it, an' with God's assistance,
always will."

"An', my son, too, will you bear up undher this like a man? Remember,
Connor darlin', that although you're lavin' us forever, yet your poor
father an' I have the blessed satisfaction of knowin' that we're not
childless--that you're alive, an' that you may yet do well an' be
happy. I mintion these things, acushla machree, to show you that there's
nothin' over you so bad, but you may show yourself firm and manly undher
it--act as you have done. It's you, asthore, ought to comfort your
father an me; an' I hope, whin you're parted from, him, that you
'ill--Oh God, support him! I wish, Connor, darlin', that that partin'
was over, but I depend upon you to make it as light upon him as you can
do."

She paused, apparently from exhaustion. Indeed, it was evident, either
that she had little else to add, or that she felt too weak to speak much
more, with such a load of sorrow and affliction on her heart.

"There is one thing, Connor jewel, that I needn't mintion. Of coorse
you'll write to us as often as you convaniently can. Oh, do not forget
that! for you know that that bit of paper from your own hand, is all
belongin' to you we will ever see more. Avick machree, machree, many
a long look--out we will have for it. It may keep the ould man's heart
from breakin'."

She was silent, but, as she uttered the last words, there was a shaking
of the voice, which gave clear proof of the difficulty with which she
went through the solemn task of being calm, which, for the sake of her
son, she had heroically imposed upon herself.

She was now silent, but, as is usual with Irish women under the
influence of sorrow, she rocked herself involuntary to and fro, whilst,
with closed eyes, and hands clasped as before, she held communion with
God, the only true source of comfort.

"Connor," she added, after a pause, during which he and Una, though
silent from respect to her, were both deeply affected; "sit f