To this there were two modes of access: one by a paved bridle-way, or boreen, that ran up directly before the door--the other by a green lane, that diverged from the boreen about a furlong below the house. He took the latter, certain that the family could not notice his approach, nor hear the noise of his horse's footsteps, until he could arrive at the very threshold.. On dismounting, he felt that he could scarcely walk. He approached the door, however, as steadily as he could. He entered--and the family, who had just finished their supper, rose up, as a mark of their respect to the stranger. “Is this,” he inquired, “the house in which Dominick M'Evoy lives?” “That's my name, sir,” replied Dominick. “The family, I trust, are--all--well? I have been desired--but--no--no--I cannot--I cannot--father!--mother! “It's him!” shrieked the mother--“Its himself!--Jemmy” “Jemmy!--Jemmy!” shouted the lather, with a cry of joy which might be heard far beyond the house. “Jemmy!--our poor Jemmy!--Jemmy!!” exclaimed his brothers and sisters. “Asy, childhre,” said the father--“asy; let the mother to him--let her to him. Who has the right that she has? Vara, asthore--Vara, think of yourself. God of heaven! what is comin' over her?--Her brain's turned!” “Father, don't remove her,” said the son. “Leave her arms where they are: it's long since they encircled my neck before. Often--often would I have given the wealth of the universe to be encircled in my blessed and beloved mother's arms! Yes, yes!--Weep, my father--weep, each of you. You see those tears:--consider them as a proof that I have never forgotten you! Beloved mother! recollect yourself: she knows me not--her eyes wander!--I fear the shock has been too much for her. Place a chair at the door, and I will bring her to the air.” After considerable effort, the mother's faculties were restored so far as to be merely conscious that our hero was her son. She had not yet shed a tear, but now she surveyed his countenance, smiled and named him, placed her hands upon him, and examined his dress with a singular blending of conflicting emotions, but still without being thoroughly collected. “I will speak to her,” said Jemmy, “in Irish, it will go directly to her heart:--_Mhair, avourneen, tha ma, laht, anish!_--Mother, my darling, I am with you at last.” “_Shamus, aroon, vick machree, wuil thu Ihum? wuil thu--wuil thu Ihum?_--Jemmy, my beloved, son of my heart, are you with me?--are you--are you with me?” “_Ish maheen a tha in, a vair dheelish machree_--It is I who am with you, beloved mother of my heart!” She smiled again--but only for a moment. She looked at him, laid his head upon her bosom, bedewed his face with her tears, and muttered out, in a kind of sweet, musical cadence, the Irish cry of joy.