If so, I ask him boldly,--whatever may have been the high rewards of his later fire, whatever honors may have been showered upon him, however great his career, and however brilliant its recognitions,--has he ever, in his proudest moments, tasted such a glorious thrill of delight as when he has fallen into his father's arms overcome by the happiness that he has made that father proud of him? Oh, ye who have experienced this thrill of joy within you, cherish and preserve it. The most glowing eulogies of eloquence, the most ornate paragraphs of a flattering press, are sorry things in comparison to it. For ourselves, we had rather have been Joe Nelligan when, with his father's warm tears dimming his eyes, he said, “God bless you, my boy!” than have gained all the honors that even talents like his can command! He could not bear to absent himself from home that day; and although his father would gladly have celebrated his triumph by gathering his friends about him, Joe entreated that they might be alone. And they were so. The great excitement of the day over, a sense of weariness, almost sadness, stole over the young man; and while his father continued to relate for his mother's hearing various little incidents of the trial, he listened with a half-apathetic dreaminess, as though the theme oppressed him. The old man dwelt with delight on the flattering attention bestowed by the Court on Joseph's address, the signs of concurrence vouchsafed from time to time by the Bench, the approving murmur of the Bar while he spoke, and then the honest outburst of enthusiasm that shook the very walls as he concluded. “I tried,” continued Dan Nelligan,--“I tried to force my way through the crowd, and come and tell you that he had gained the day, but I couldn't; they were all around me, shaking my hands, patting me on the shoulders, and saying, as if I did n't know it in my own heart, 'He 'll make you a proud man yet, Mr. Nelligan.'” “I heard it all, five minutes after it was over,” said Mrs. Nelligan; “and you 'd never guess who told me.” “Counsellor Walsh,” cried Nelligan. “No, indeed; I never seen him.” “It was Hosey Lynch, then, for I saw him running like mad through the town, spreading the news everywhere.” “It was not Hosey,” said she, half contemptuously. “I wish, Joe, you'd give a guess yourself who told me.” “Guess, mother,--guess who told you what?” said he, suddenly starting from some deep meditation. “Who told me that you won the cause, and beat all the great counsellors from Dublin.” “I'm sure, mother, it would be hard for me to say,” said Joseph, smiling faintly; “some of our kind townsfolk, perhaps. Father Neal, old Peter Hayes, or--” “I'll just tell you at once,” broke she in, half irritated at the suggested source of her information. “It was Miss Mary herself, and no other.” “Miss Martin!” exclaimed old Nelligan. “Miss Mary Martin!” echoed Joe; while a sickly paleness crept over his features, and his lips trembled as he spoke.