She threw herself in his arms, and locking him in her embrace, imprinted every part of his face with kisses. “Oh, Denis,” she exclaimed, “there is but one more who will miss you more nor I will--Oh, my darlin' son--our pride--our pride--our heart's pride--our honor, and our credit! Sure, _anim machree_, I have nothin' to forgive you for, my heart's life; but may the blessin' of God and of a happy mother light on you! And, Denis _asthore_, wasn't it you that made me happy, and that made us all happy. May my blessin' and the blessin' of God rest upon you--keep you from every evil, and in every good, till my eyes will be made glad by lookin' on you agin!” A grief more deep, and a happiness more full, than had yet been felt, were now to come forth. Denis turned to his father--his companion in many a pastime, and in many a walk about their native fields. In fair--in market--at mass--and at every rustic amusement within their reach--had he been ever at the side of that indulgent father, whose heart and soul were placed in him. Denis could not utter a word, but kept his streaming eyes fixed upon the old man, with that yearning expression of the heart which is felt when it desires to be mingled with the very existence of the object that it loves. Old Denis advanced, under powerful struggles, to suppress his grief; he knelt, and, as the tears ran in silence down his cheeks, thus addressed himself to God:-- “I kneel down before you, oh, my God a poor sinner! I kneel here in your blessed presence, with a heart--with a happy heartens day, to return you thanks in the name of myself and the beloved partner you have given me through the cares and thrials of this world, to give you our heart's best thanks for graciously permittin' us to see this day! It is to you we owe it, good Father of Heaven! It is to you we owe this--an' him--my heart's own son, that kneels before me to be blessed by my lips! Yes--yes, he is--he is the pride of our lives!--He is the mornin' star among us! he was ever a good son; and you know that from the day he was born to this minute, he never gave me a sore heart! Take him under your own protection! Oh, bless him as we wish, if it be your holy will to do so!--Bless him and guard him, for my heart's in him: it is--he knows it--everybody knows it;--and if anything was to happen him----” He could proceed no further: the idea of losing his son, even in imagination, overpowered him;--he rose, locked him to his breast, and for many minutes the grief of both was loud and vehement. Denis's uncle now interposed: “The horses,” said he, “are at the door, an' time's passin'.” “Och, thrue for you, Barny,” said old Denis; “come, _acushla_, an' let me help you on your horse. We will go on quickly, as we're to meet Father Finnerty at the crass-roads.”