cowld damp place for you, my boy."
"Nony! Nony!" cried the child, looking at him with an affectionatesmile, as though to say he'd rather be near him.
"Well, well, who knows but you're right? if it's the will of God to takeme, maybe you might as well go too. It's a sore thing to be alone inthe world, like me now!" And as he muttered the last few words he ceaseddigging, and rested his head on the cross of the spade.
"Was that you, Patsy? I heard a voice somewhere."
The child shook his head in token of dissent.
"Ayeh! it was only the wind through the ould walls; but sure it mightbe nat'ral enough for sighs and sobs to be here: there's many a one hasfloated over this damp clay."
He resumed his work once more. The night was falling fast as Owenstepped from the deep grave, and knelt down to say a prayer ere hecommitted the body to the earth.
"Kneel down, darlin', here by my side," said he, placing his arm roundthe little fellow's waist; "'tis the likes of you God loves best;"and joining the tiny hands with his own, he uttered a deep and ferventprayer for the soul of the departed. "There, father!" said he, as hearose at last, and in a voice as if addressing a living person at hisside; "there, father: the Lord, he knows my heart inside me; and ifwalking the world barefoot would give ye peace or ease, I'd do it, foryou were a kind man and a good father to me." He kissed the coffin as hespoke, and stood silently gazing on it.
Arousing himself with a kind of struggle, he untied the cords, andlifted the coffin from the cart. For some seconds he busied himself inarranging the ropes beneath it, and then ceased suddenly, on rememberingthat he could not lower it into the grave unassisted.
"I'll have to go down the road for some one," muttered he to himself;but as he said this, he perceived at some distance off in the churchyardthe figure of a man, as if kneeling over a grave. "The Lord help him, hehas his grief too!" ejaculated Owen, as he moved towards him. On comingnearer he perceived that the grave was newly made, and from its sizeevidently that of a child.
"I ax your pardon," said Owen, in a timid voice, after waiting forseveral minutes in the vain expectation that the man would look up; "Iax your pardon for disturbing you, but maybe you'll be kind enough tohelp me to lay this coffin in the ground. I have nobody with me but achild."
The man started and looked round. Their eyes met; it was Phil Joyce andOwen who now confronted each other. But how unlike were both to whatthey were at their last parting! Then, vindictive passion, outragedpride, and vengeance, swelled every feature and tingled in every fibreof their frames. Now, each stood pale, care-worn, and dispirited,wearied out by sorrow, and almost brokenhearted. Owen was the first tospeak.
"I axed your pardon before I saw you, Phil Joyce, and I ax it again now,for disturbing you; but I didn't know you, and I wanted to put my poorfather's body in the grave."
"I didn't know he was dead," said Phil, in a hollow voice, like onespeaking to himself. "This is poor little Billy here," and he pointed tothe mound at his feet.
"The heavens be his bed this night!" said Owen, piously; "Good night!"and he turned to go away; then stopping suddenly, he added, "Maybe,after all, you'll not refuse me, and the Lord might be more merciful tous both, than if we were to part like enemies."
"Owen Connor, I ask your forgiveness," said Phil, stretching forth hishand, while his voice trembled like a sick child's. "I didn't think theday would come I'd ever do it; but my heart is humble enough now, andmaybe 'twill be lower soon. Will you take my hand?"
"Will I, Phil? will I, is it? ay, and however ye may change to me afterthis night, I'll never forget this." And he grasped the cold fingers inboth hands, and pressed them ardently, and the two men fell into eachother's arms and wept.
Is it a proud or a humiliating confession for humanity--assuredly it isa true one--that the finest and best traits of our nature are elicitedin our troubles, and not in our joys? that we come out purer throughtrials than prosperity? Does the chastisement of Heaven teach us betterthan the blessings lavished upon us? or are these gifts the compensationsent us for our afflictions, that when poorest before man we shouldbe richest before God? Few hearts there are which sorrow makes notwiser--none which are not better for it. So it was here. These men,in the continuance of good fortune, had been enemies for life; mutualhatred had grown up between them, so that each yearned for vengeance onthe other; and now they walked like brothers, only seeking forgivenessof each other, and asking pardon for the past.
The old man was laid in his grave, and they turned to leave thechurchyard.
"Won't ye come home with me, Owen?" said Phil, as they came to wheretheir roads separated; "won't ye come and eat your supper with us?"
Owen's throat filled up: he could only mutter, "Not to-night,Phil--another time, plaze God." He had not ventured even to ask forMary, nor did he know whether Phil Joyce in his reconciliation mightwish a renewal of any intimacy with his sister. Such was the reason ofOwen's refusal; for, however strange it may seem to some, there is adelicacy of the heart as well as of good breeding, and one advantage itpossesses--it is of all lands, and the fashion never changes.
Poor Owen would have shed his best blood to be able to ask afterMary--to learn how she was, and how she bore up under the disasters ofthe time; but he never mentioned her name: and as for Phil Joyce, hisgloomy thoughts had left no room for others, and he parted from Owenwithout a single allusion to her. "Good night, Owen," said he, "and don'tforget your promise to come and see us soon."
"Good night, Phil," was the answer; "and I pray a blessing on you andyours." A slight quivering of the voice at the last word was all hesuffered to escape him; and they parted.
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