y trust in
God that he won't desart you in your last hour. You did what you could,
my heart's pride; you bent before him night an' mornin', and sure the
poor neighbor never wint from your door widout lavin' his blessin'
behind him."

The dying man raised his hands feebly from the bed-clothes; "Ah!" he
exclaimed, "I thought I did a great dale, Alley: but now--but now--it
appears nothin' to what I ought to a' done when I could. Still,
avour-neen, my life's not unpleasant when I look back at it; for I can't
remimber that I ever purposely offinded a livin' mortal. All I want to
satisfy me is the priest."

"No, avourneen, you did not; for it wasn't in you to offind a child."

"Alley, you'll pardon me an' forgive me acushla, if ever--if ever I did
what was displasin' to you! An' call in the childhre, till I see them
about me--I want to have their forgiveness, too. I know I'll have
it--for they wor good childhre, an' ever loved me."

The daughters now entered the room, exclaiming--"_Ahir dheelish_
(beloved father), Pether is comin' by himself, but no priest! Blessed
Queen of Heaven, what will we do! Oh! father darlin', are you to die
widout the Holy Ointment?"

The sick man clasped his hands, looked towards heaven and groaned aloud.

"Oh, it's hard, this," said he. "It's hard upon me! Yet I won't be cast
down. I'll trust in my good God; I'll trust in his blessed name!"

His wife, on hearing that her son was returned without the priest, sat,
with her face shrouded by her apron, weeping in grief that none but they
who know the dependence which those belonging to her church place in
its last rites can comprehend. The children appeared almost distracted;
their grief had more of that stunning character which attends unexpected
calamity, than of sorrow for one who is gradually drawn from life.

At length the messenger entered the room, and almost choked with tears,
stated that both priests were absent that day at Conference, and would
not return till late.

The hitherto moderated grief of the wife arose to a pitch much wilder
than the death of her husband could, under ordinary circumstances,
occasion. To die without absolution--to pass away into eternity
"unanointed, unaneled"--without being purified from the inherent
stains of humanity--was to her a much deeper affliction than her final
separation from him. She cried in tones of the most piercing despair,
and clapped her hands, as they do who weep over the dead. Had he di