“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 fornint me, avick machree, that, for the short time you're to be with me, I may have you before my eyes. Husth now, a colleen machree, an' remimber your promise. Where's the stringth you said you'd show?” She then gazed with a long look of love and sorrow upon the fine countenance of her manly son, and nature would be no longer restrained-- “Let me lay my head upon your breast,” said she; “I'm attemptin' too much--the mother's heart will give out the mother's voice--will speak the mother's sorrow! Oh, my son, my son, my darlin', manly son--are you lavin' your lovin' mother for evermore, for evermore?” She was overcome; placing her head upon his bosom, her grief fell into that beautiful but mournful wail with which, in Ireland, those of her sex weep over the dead. Indeed, the scene assumed a tenderness, from this incident, which was inexpressibly affecting, inasmuch as the cry of death was but little out of place when bewailing that beloved boy, whom, by the stern decree of law, she was never to see again.