"
Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears that streamed from
his cheeks. At this moment her daughter and son-in-law stole in, to
ascertain how she was, and whether the rites of the church had in any
degree soothed or composed her.
"Come in, Denis," said the priest to his nephew, "you may both come in.
Mrs. Mulcahy, speak to your mother: let us try every remedy that might
possibly bring her to a sense of her awful state."
"Is she raving still?" inquired the daughter, whose eyes were red with
weeping.
The priest shook his head; "Ah, she is--she is! and I fear she will
scarcely recover her reason before the judgment of heaven opens upon
her!"
"Oh thin may the Mother of Glory forbid that!" exclaimed her
daughter--"anything at all but that! Can you do nothin' for her, uncle?"
"I'm doing all I can for her, Mary," replied the priest; "I'm watching a
calm moment to get her confession, if possible."
The sick woman had fallen into a momentary silence, during which, she
caught the bed-clothes like a child, and felt them, and seemed to handle
their texture, but with such an air of vacancy as clearly manifested
that no corresponding association existed in her mind.
The action was immediately understood by all present. Her daughter again
burst into tears; and Peter, now almost choked with grief, pressing the
sick woman to his heart, kissed her burning lips.
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