O, avillish machree (sweetness of my heart), don't you hear that it is your mother's voice that's spakin' to you!" She was still, however, insensible; and her little brothers were all in tears about her.
"O mother!" said the oldest, sobbing, "is Nannie dead too?
When she went away from us you bid us not to cry, that she would soon come back; and now she has only come back to die.

Nannie, I'm your own little Frank; won't you hear me I Nannie, will you never wash my face of a Sunday morning more?
will you never comb down my hair, put the pin in my shirt collar, and kiss me, as you used to do before we went to Mass together ?" The poor mother was so much overcome by this artless allusion to her innocent life, involving, as it did, such a manifestation of affection, that she wept until fairly exhausted, after which she turned her eyes up to heaven and exclaimed, whilst her daughter's inanimate body still lay in her arms, "O Lord of mercy, will you not look down with pity and compassion on me this night!" In the course of about ten minutes after this her daughter's eyes began to fill with those involuntary tears which betoken in females recovery from a fit; they streamed quietly, but in torrents, down her cheek.
She gave a deep sigh, opened her eyes, looked around her, first with astonishment, and then toward the bed with a start of horror.
"Where am I ?" said she.
"You are with me, darlin'," replied the mother, kissing her lips, and whispering, "Nannie, I forgive you--I forgive you; and whisper, your father did before he went to death." She smiled faintly and sorrowfully in her mother's face, and said, "Mother, I didn't know that." After which she got up, and proceeding to the bed, she fell upon his body, kissed his lips, and indulged in a wild and heart-breaking wail of grief.

This evidently afforded her relief, for she now became more calm and collected.
"Mother," said she, "I must go." "Why, sure you won't leave us, Nannie ?" replied the other with affectionate alarm.
"O, I must go," she repeated; "bring me the children till I see them once--Frank first." The mother accordingly brought them to her, one by one, when she stooped down and kissed them in turn, not without bitter tears, whilst they, poor things, were all in an uproar of sorrow.

She then approached her mother, threw herself in her arms, and again wept wildly for a time, as did that afflicted mother along with her.
"Mother, farewell," said she at length--"farewell; think of me when I am far away--think of your unfortunate Nannie, and let every one that hears of my misfortune think of all the misery and all the crime that may come from one false and unguarded step." "O, Nannie darling," replied her mother, "don't desert us now; sure you wouldn't desert your mother now, Nannie ?" "If my life could make you easy or happy, mother, I could give it for your sake, worthless now and unhappy as it is; but I am going to a far country, where my shame and the misfortunes I have caused will never be known.

I must go, for if I lived here, my disgrace would always be before you and myself; then I would soon die, and I am not yet fit for death." With these words the unhappy girl passed out of the house, and was never after that night seen or heard of, but once, in that part of the country.
In the meantime that most pitiable mother, whose afflicted heart could only alternate from one piercing sorrow to another, sat down once more, and poured forth a torrent of grief for her unhappy daughter, whom she feared, she would never see again.
Those who were present, now that the distressing scene which we have attempted to describe was over, began to chat together with more freedom.
"Tom Kennedy," said one of them, accosting a good-natured young fellow, with a clear, pleasant eye, "how are all your family at Beech Grove?
Ould Goodwin and his pretty daughter ought to feel themselves in good spirits after gaining the lawsuit in the case of Mr.Hamilton's will.
They bate the Lindsays all to sticks." "And why not," replied Kennedy; "who had a betther right to dispose of his property than the man that owned it?
and, indeed, if any one livin' desarved it from another, Miss Alice did from him.