t was right, he
would have lived to see his most sanguine wishes, with regard to
his son, accomplished, and perhaps have still been able to enjoy a
comparatively long and happy life.

On the morning of the day on which he died, although not suffering much
from pain, he seemed to feel an impression that his end was at hand. It
is due to him to say here, that he had for months before his death been
deeply and sincerely penitent, and that he was not only sensible of the
vanity and errors which had occasioned his fall from integrity, and cut
him off in the prime of life, but also felt his heart sustained by
the divine consolations of religion. Father Costello was earnest and
unremitting in his spiritual attentions to him, and certainly had the
gratification of knowing that he felt death to be in his case not merely
a release from all his cares and sorrows, but a passport into that life
where the weary are at rest.

About twelve o'clock in the forenoon he asked to see his wife--his own
Margaret--and his children, but, above all, his blessed Atty--for such
was the epithet he had ever annexed to his name since the night of the
melancholy accident. In a few minutes the sorrowful group appeared, his
mother leading the unconscious boy by the hand, for he knew not where he
was. Art lay, or rather reclined, on the bed, supported by two bolsters;
his visage was pale, but the general expression of his face was calm,
mild, and sorrowful; although his words were distinct, his voice was
low and feeble, and every now and then impeded by a short catch--for to
cough he was literally unable.

"Margaret," said he, "come to me, come to me now," and he feebly
received her hand in his; "I feel that afther all the warfare of this
poor life, afther all our love and our sorrow, I am goin' to part wid
you and our childhre at last."

"Oh, Art, darlin', I can think of nothing now, asthore, but our love,"
she replied, bursting into a flood of tears, in which she was joined by
the children--Atty, the unconscious Atty, only excepted.

"An' I can think of little else," said he, "than our sorrows and
sufferins, an' all the woful evil that I brought upon you and them."

"Darlin'," she replied, "it's a consolation to yourself, as it is to us,
that whatever your errors wor, you've repented for them; death is not
frightful to you, glory be to God!"

"No," said he, looking upwards, and clasping his worn hands; "I am
resigned to the will of my good and