manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the boy, and
the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered--that
in point of fact no heart--certainly no Irish heart--could withstand
it. There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity,
and beauty--named in Irish "_Tha ma mackulla's na foscal me,_"---or
in English, "I am asleep, and don't waken me." The position of the boy
caused the recollection of the old melody to flash into the mother's
heart,--she simply pointed to him as the words streamed in a low
melodious murmur, but one full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips.
The old sacred association--for it was one which she had sung for him
a thousand times,--until warned to desist by his tears--deepened the
tenderness of her heart, and she said with difficulty, whilst she
involuntarily held over the candle to gratify the father's heart by a
sight of him. "I was keepin' him before my eye," she said; "God knows
but it may be the last night we'll ever see him undher our own roof!
Dominick, achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my heart."

"Then how can I, Vara?" he replied. "Wasn't he my right hand in
everything? When was he from me, ever since he took a man's work upon
him? And when he'd finish his own task for the day, how kindly he'd
begin an' help me wid mine! No, Vara, it goes to my heart to let him go
away upon sich a plan, and I wish he hadn't taken the notion into his
head at all."

"It's not too late, maybe," replied his mother: "I think it wouldn't
be hard to put him off of it; the crathur's own heart is failin' him to
lave us. He has sorrow upon his face where he lies."

The father looked at the expression of affectionate melancholy which
shaded hia features as he slept; and the perception of the boy's