Fardorougha had already seized his hand; but the old man could neither speak nor weep; his whole frame appeared to have been suddenly pervaded by a dry agony that suspended the beatings of his very heart. The mother's grief, on the contrary, was loud, and piercing, and vehement. She threw herself once more upon his neck; she kissed his lips, she pressed him to her heart, and poured out as before the wail of a wild and hopeless misery. At length, by the aid of some slight but necessary force, her arms were untwined from about his neck; and Connor then, stooping, embraced his father, and, gently placing him on a settle--bed, bade him farewell! On reaching the door he paused, and, turning about, surveyed his mother struggling in the hands of one of the officers to get embracing him again, and his gray--haired father sitting in speechless misery on the settle. He stood a moment to look upon them, and a few bitter tears rolled, in the silence of manly sorrow, down his cheeks. “Oh, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his mother, after they had gone, “sure it isn't merely for partin' wid him that we feel so heart--broken. He may never stand under this roof again, an' he all we have and had to love!” “No,” returned Fardorougha, quietly; “no, it's not, as you say, for merely partin' wid him--hanged! God! God! Mm--here--Honor--here, the thought of it--I'll die--it'll break! Oh, God support me! my heart--here--my heart'll break! My brain, too, and my head--oh! if God 'ud take me before I'd see it! But it can't be--it's not possible that our innocent boy should meet sich a death!” “No, dear, it is not; sure he's innocent--that's one comfort; but, Fardorougha, as the men said, you must go to a lawyer and see what can be done to defind him.” The old man rose up and proceeded to his son's bedroom. “Honor,” said he, “come here;” and while uttering these words he gazed upon her face with a look of unutterable and hopeless distress; “there's his bed, Honor--his bed--he may never sleep on it more--he may be cut down like a flower in his youth--an' then what will become of us?” “Forever, from this day out,” said the distracted mother, “no hands will ever make it but my own; on no other will I sleep--we will both sleep--where his head lay there will mine be too--avick machree--machree! Och, Fardorougha, we can't stand this; let us not take it to heart, as we do; let us trust in God, an' hope for the best.” Honor, in fact, found it necessary to assume the office of a comforter; but it was clear that nothing urged or suggested by her could for a moment win back the old man's heart from the contemplation of the loss of his son. He moped about for a considerable time; but, ever and anon, found himself in Connor's bedroom, looking upon his clothes and such other memorials of him as it contained. During the occurrence of these melancholy incidents at Fardorougha's, others of a scarcely less distressing character were passing under the roof of Bodagh Buie O'Brien.