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.
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