We have often observed how much fervid piety is mingled with the affections of the Irish people when in a state of excitement; and this meeting between the old man and his wife presented an additional proof of it.
"Blessed be God!" exclaimed his wife, tenderly embracing* him, "blessed be God, Tom darlin', that you're safe back to us! An' how are you, avourueen?
an' wor you well ever since?
an' there was nothin--musha, go out o' this, Ranger, you thief--oh, God forgive me! what am I sayin'?
sure the poor dog is as glad as the best of us--arrah, thin, look at the affectionate crathur, a'most beside himself! Dora, avillish, give him the could stirabout that's in the skillet, jist for his affection, the crathur.

Here, Ranger--Ranger, I say--oh no, sorra one's in the house now but yourself, Tom.

Well, an' there was nothing wrong wid you ?" "Nothin', Nancy, thanks be to the Almighty--down, poor fellow--there now, Ranger--och, behave, you foolish dog--musha, see this!" "Throth, Tom," continued his loving wife, "let what will happen, it's the last journey ever we'll let you take from us.

Ever an' ever, there we wor thinkin' an' thinkin' a thousand things about you.

At one time that something happened you; then that you fell sick an' had none but strangers about you.