"Bryan, dear," she said, after a pause, and when his grief had somewhat
subsided, "why will you give way to this? Sure it was on you I placed
my dependence--I hoped that, instead of settin' the rest an example for
weakness, you'd set them one that they might and ought to follow--I sent
for you, Bryan, to make it my request that, if it's the will of God to
take me from among you, you might support an' console the others, an'
especially your poor father; for I needn't tell you that along wid the
pain I'm bearin', my heart is sore and full o sorrow for what I
know he'll suffer when I'm gone. May the Lord pity and give him
strength!--for I can say on my dyin' bed that, from the first day I
ever seen his face until now, he never gave me a harsh word or an unkind
look, an' that you all know."
"Oh how could he, mother dear? how could any one give you that? Who
was it that ever knew you could trate you with anything but respect and
affection?"
"I hope I always struv to do my duty, Bryan, towards God an' my
childre', and my fellow-creatures; an' for that raison I'm not
frightened at death. An', Bryan, listen to the words of your dyin'
mother--"
"Oh, don't say that yet, mother," replied her son, sobbing; "don't say
so yet; who knows but God will spare your life, an' that you may be many
years with us still; they're all alarmed too much, I hope; but it's no
wondher we should, mother dear, when there's any appearance at all of
danger about you.
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