As is usual with Catholic families in their state of life, there were
several of those assembled, and also some of themselves, at joint prayer
in different parts of the house; and seated by her bedside was her
youngest son, Art, engaged, with sobbing voice and eyes every now and
then blinded with tears, in the perusal, for her comfort, of Prayers for
the Sick. Tom M'Mahon himself went about every now and then clasping
his hands, and turning up his eyes to heaven in a distracted manner,
exclaiming--"Oh! Bridget, Bridget, is it come to this at last! And
you're lavin' me--you're lavin' me! Oh, my God! what will I do--how will
I live, an' what will become of me!"
On seeing Bryan, he ran to him and said,--"Oh! Bryan, to what point will
I turn?--where will I get consolation?--how will I bear it? Sure,
she was like a blessin' from heaven among us; ever full of peace, and
charity, and goodness--the kind word an' the sweet smile to all; but to
me--to me--oh! Bridget, Bridget, I'd rather die than live afther you!"
"Father, dear, your takin' it too much to heart," replied Bryan; "who
knows but God may spare her to us still? But you know that even if it's
His will to remove her from amongst us"--his voice here failed him for a
moment--"hem--to remove her from amongst us, it's our duty to submit
to it; but I hope in God she may recover still.
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