d to be whisperin'
together so often, and lookin' at me; but indeed they might spake loud
enough now, for I'm so deaf that I can hardly hear anything. Howaniver,
Ned, listen--they all intend to go, you say; now listen, I say--I know
one that won't go; now, do you hear that? You needn't say anything about
it, but this I tell you--listen to me, what's your name? Barney, is it?"

"Why, is it possible, you don't know Ned Gormley?"

"Ay, Ned Gormley--och, so it is. Well listen, Ned--there's one they
won't bring; I can tell you that--the sorra foot I'll go to--to--where's
this you say they're goin' to, Jemmy?"

Gormley shook his head. "Poor Bryan," said he, "it's nearly all over wid
you, at any rate. To America, Bryan," he repeated, in a loud voice.

"Ay, to America. Well, the sorra foot ever I'll go to America--that one
thing I can tell them. I'm goin' in. Oh! never mind," he exclaimed,
on Gormley offering him assistance, "I'm stout enough still; stout an'
active still; as soople as a two-year ould, thank God. Don't I bear up
wonderfully?"

"Well, indeed you do, Bryan; it is wonderful, sure enough."

In a few minutes they arrived at the door; and the old man, recovering
as it were a portion of his former intellect, said, "lavin' this
place--these houses--an' goin' away--far, far away--to a strange
country--to strange people! an' to bring me, the ould white-haired
grandfather, away from all! that would be cruel; but my son Tom will
never do it."

"Well, at any rate, Bryan," said his neighbor, "whether you go or stay,
God be wid you. It's a pity, God knows, that the like of you and your
family should leave the country; and sure if the landlord, as they say,
is angry about it, why doesn't he do what he ought to do? an' why does
he allow that smooth-tongued rap to lead him by the nose as he does?
Howandiver, as I said, whether you go or stay, Bryan, God be wid you!"

During all that morning Thomas M'Mahon had been evidently suffering very
deeply from a contemplation of the change that was about to take place
by the departure of himself and his family from Carriglass. He had been
silent the greater part of the morning, and not unfrequently forced to
give away to tears, in which he was joined by his daughters, with the
exception of Dora, who, having assumed the office of comforter, felt
herself bound to maintain the appearance of a firmness which she did
not feel. In this mood he was when "grandfather," as they called him,