"It's a good bit, my lady — it's more nor a mile beyant Carra — just right forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback; in Jemmy Morrison's woods — where Pat M'Farren's clearing is — it's there I live, my lady." "That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow," said Alice, kindly; "sit down, and come nearer the fire. Margery will give you something to refresh you." "I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night; and when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's little the cold or the storm can do to put out the heart's fire." "Life and death! who is sick?" said Alice. "It's my own child, Ma’am — my own boy — all the child I have — and I'll have none by the morning light." "Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?" "Myself doesn't know." The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances. "Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly. Margery — oh, that's right — a cup of tea will do her good. What do you want with my father?" "The Lord bless ye! — I'll tell you, my lady." She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that Margery offered her. "The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left it — it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm thinking the bitter winters of this cowld country has chilled the life o' him — and troubles cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone. "I seed him grow waker and waker, an' his dair face grown thinner and thinner, and the red all left it, only two burning spots was on it some days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I couldn't do nothing at all to help him, for he just growed waker an' waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him, but he's an aisy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was already like a heavenly angel itself, an' always was, but then more nor ever. Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely! — let Father Shannon say what he will." She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and pitying.