, sure I'm come back to you all!" and he rapped more
loudly than before. A dark breeze swept through the bushes as he spoke,
but no voice nor sound proceeded from the house;--all was still as death
within. "Alley!" he called once more to his little favorite; "I'm come
home wid something for you, asthore! I didn't forget you, alanna!--I
brought it from Dublin, all the way. Alley!" but the gloomy murmur of
the blast was the only reply.

Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew as misery was that which
he then felt; but this state of suspense was soon terminated by the
appearance of a neighbor who was passing.

"Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home agin, my poor fellow; and I'm
sorry that I haven't betther news for you, and so are all of us."

He whom he addressed had almost lost the power of speech.

"Frank," said he, and he wrung his hand, "What--what? was death among
them? For the sake of heaven, spake!"

The severe pressure which he received in return ran like a shoot, of
paralysis to his heart.

"Owen, you must be a man; every one pities yez, and may the Almighty
pity and support yez! She is, indeed, Owen, gone; the weeny fair-haired
child, your favorite Alley, is gone. Yestherday she was berrid; and
dacently the nabors attinded the place, and sent in, as far as they
had it, both mate and dhrink to Kathleen and the other ones. Now, Owen,
you've heard it; trust in God, an' be a man."

A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the heart. "Gone!--the
fair-haired one!--Alley!--Alley!--the pride of both our hearts; the
sweet, the quiet, and the sorrowful child, that seldom played wid the
rest, but kept wid mys--! Oh, my darlin', my darlin'! gone from my eyes
for ever!--God of glory; won't you support me this night of sorrow and
misery!"

With a sudden yet profound sense of humility, he dropped on his knees
at the threshold, and, as the tears rolled down his convulsed cheeks,
exclaimed, in a burst of sublime piety, not at all uncommon among our
peasantry--"I thank you, O my God! I thank you, an' I put myself an' my
weeny ones, my _pastchee boght_ (* my poor children) into your hands. I
thank you, O God, for what has happened! Keep me up and support me--och,
I want it! You loved the weeny one, and you took her; she was the light
of my eyes, and the pulse of my broken heart, but you took her, blessed
Father of heaven! an' we can't be angry wid you for so doin'! Still if
you had spared her--if--if--O, blessed Fath