Lanigan's residence has the same comfortable and warm appearance which always distinguishes the habitation of the independent and virtuous man. What, however, can the stir, and bustle, and agitation which prevail in it mean? The daughters run out to a little mound, a natural terrace, beside the house, and look anxiously towards the road; then return, and almost immediately appear again, with the same intense anxiety to catch a glimpse of some one whom they expect. They look keenly; but why is it that their disappointment appears to be attended with such dismay? They go into their father's house once more, wringing their hands, and betraying all the symptoms of affliction. Here is their mother, too, coming to peer into the distance, she is rocking with that motion peculiar to Irishwomen when suffering distress. She places her open hand upon her brows that she may collect her sight to a particular spot; she is blinded by her tears; breaks out into a low wail, and returns with something like the darkness of despair on her countenance. She goes into the house, passes through the kitchen, and enters into a bed-room; seats herself on a chair beside the bed, and renews her low but' bitter wail of sorrow. Her husband is lying in that state which the peasantry know usually precedes the agonies of death. “For the sake of the livin' God,” said he, on seeing her, “is there any sign o' them?” “Not yet, a _suillish_; (* My light) but they will soon--they must soon, asthore, be here, an' thin your mind will be asy.” “Oh, Alley, Alley, if you could know what I suffer for 'fraid I'd die widout the priest you'd pity me!” “I do pity you, asthore: but don't be cast down, for I have my trust in God that he won't desart you in your last hour. You did what you could, my heart's pride; you bent before him night an' mornin', and sure the poor neighbor never wint from your door widout lavin' his blessin' behind him.” The dying man raised his hands feebly from the bed-clothes; “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I thought I did a great dale, Alley: but now--but now--it appears nothin' to what I ought to a' done when I could. Still, avour-neen, my life's not unpleasant when I look back at it; for I can't remimber that I ever purposely offinded a livin' mortal. All I want to satisfy me is the priest.” “No, avourneen, you did not; for it wasn't in you to offind a child.” “Alley, you'll pardon me an' forgive me acushla, if ever--if ever I did what was displasin' to you! An' call in the childhre, till I see them about me--I want to have their forgiveness, too. I know I'll have it--for they wor good childhre, an' ever loved me.” The daughters now entered the room, exclaiming--“_Ahir dheelish_ (beloved father), Pether is comin' by himself, but no priest! Blessed Queen of Heaven, what will we do! Oh! father darlin', are you to die widout the Holy Ointment?” The sick man clasped his hands, looked towards heaven and groaned aloud.