“Come. Bryan,” she said, assuming a cheerfulness which she did not feel, “don't have it to say that little Dora, who ought and does look up to you for support, must begin to support you herself; to-morrow's the last day--who knows but she may relent yet?” Bryan smiled faintly, then patted her head, and said, “darling little Dora, the wealth of nations couldn't purchase you.” “Not to do any thing mane or wrong, at any rate,” she replied; after which she went in to attend to the affairs of the family, for this conversation took place in the garden. As evening approached, a deep gloom, the consequence of strong inward suffering, overspread the features and bearing of Thomas M'Mahon. For some time past, he had almost given himself over to the influence of what he experienced--a fact that was observable in many ways, all more or less tending to revive the affection which he felt for his departed wife. For instance, ever since their minds had been made up to emigrate, he had watched, and tended, and fed Bracky, her favorite cow, with his own hands; nor would he suffer any one else in the family to go near her, with the exception of Dora, by whom she had been milked ever since her mother's death, and to whom the poor animal had now transferred her affection. He also cleaned and oiled her spinning-wheel, examined her clothes, and kept himself perpetually engaged in looking at every object that was calculated to bring her once more before his imagination. About a couple of hours before sunset, without saying where he was going, he sauntered down to the graveyard of Gamdhu where she lay, and having first uncovered his head and offered up a prayer for the repose of her soul, he wept bitterly.