Are you clear enough in your
mind for confession?"
"I am, Father! I am, avourneen. Come, come here, Pether! Pether, I'm
goin' to lave you, asthore machree! I could part wid them all but--but
you."
"Mrs. Connell, for Heaven's sake."--.
"Is this--is this--Father Mulcahy? Oh! I'm ill--ill!"--
"It is, dear; it is. Compose yourself and confess your sins."
"Where's Mary? She'll neglect--neglect to lay in a stock o' linen,
although I--I--Oh, Father, avourneen! won't you pity me! I'm sick--oh,
I'm very sick!"
"You are, dear--you are, God help you, very sick, but you'll be better
soon. Could you confess, dear?--do you think you could?"
"Oh, this pain--this pain!--it's killin' me!--Pether--Pether, _a
suillish, machree_, (* The light of my heart) have, have you des--have
you desarted me."
The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she might
feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, called him
in from the next room.
"Here's Peter," said the priest, presenting him to her view--"Here's
Peter, dear."
"Oh! what a load is on me! this pain--this pain is killin' me--won't you
bring me, Pether? Oh, what will I do? Who's there?"
The mental pangs of poor Peter were, perhaps, equal in intensity to
those which she suffered physically.
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