“No, Honor, I know he wouldn't; no,” he shouted, leaping up, “he wouldn't make a saicrefize o' me! Connor, save me, save me,” he shrieked, throwing his arms about his neck; “save me; my heart's breakin'--somethin's tearin' me different ways inside; I can cry, you see; I can cry, but I'm still as hard as a stone; it's terrible this I'm sufferin'--terrible all out for a weak ould man like me. Oh, Connor, avick, what will I do? Honor, achora, what 'ill become o' me--ainn't I strugglin', strugglin' against it, whatever it is; don't yees pity me? Don't ye, avick machree, don't ye, Honor? Oh, don't yees pity me?” “God pity you!” said the wife, bursting into tears; “what will become of you? Pray to God, Fardorougha, pray to Him. No one alive can change your heart but God. I wint to the priest to-day, to get two masses said to turn your heart from that cursed money. I didn't intind to tell you, but I do, bekase it's your duty to pray now above all times, an' to back the priest as well as you can.” “It's the best advice, father, you could get,” said the son, as he helped the trembling old man to his seat. “An' who bid you thin to go to lavish money that way?” said he, turning snappishly to Honor, and relapsing again into the peevish spirit of avarice; “Saver o' Heaven, but you'll kill me, woman, afore you have done wid me! How can I stand it, to have my hard--earned----an' for what? to turn my heart from money? I don't want to be turned from it--I don't wish it! Money!--I have no money--nothin'--nothin'--an' if there's not better decreed for me, I'll be starved yet--an' is it any wondh'er? to be robbin' me the way you're doin'!” His wife clasped her hands and looked up towards heaven in silence, and Connor, shaking his head despairingly, passed out to join Flanagan at his labor, with whom he had not spoken that day. Briefly, and with a heavy heart, he communicated to him the unsuccessful issue of his father's interference, and asked his opinion as to how he should conduct himself under circumstances so disastrous to his happiness and prospects. Bartle advised him to seek another interview with Una, and, for that purpose, offered, as before, to ascertain, in the course of that evening, at what time and place she would see him. This suggestion, in itself so natural, was adopted, and as Connor felt, with a peculiar acuteness, the pain of the situation in which he was! placed, he manifested little tendency to conversation, and the evening consequently passed heavily and in silence.