Where's Peggy's voice, I say?
'Father, forgive me,' she said, 'forgive me, father, or I'll never be happy more;' but I wouldn't forgive her, although my heart did at the same time; still I didn't say the word: bring her here," he added, "tell her I'm ready now to forgive her all; for she, it's she that was the forgivin' creature herself; tell her I'm ready now to forgive her all, an' to give her my blessin' wanst more." It was utterly impossible to hear this language from the stunned and heart-broken father, and to contemplate the fair and lifeless form of the unhappy young creature as she lay stretched before him in the peaceful stillness of death, without being moved even to tears.

There were, indeed, few dry eyes in the house as he spoke.
"Oh, Brian dear," said her weeping mother, "we helped ourselves to break her heart, as well as the rest.

We wouldn't forgive her; we wouldn't say the word, although her heart was breakin' bekaise we did not.

Oh, Peggy," she commenced in Irish, "oh, our daughter--girl of the one fault! the kind, the affectionate, and the dutiful child, to what corner of the world will your father an' myself turn now that you're gone from us?
You asked us often an' often to forgive you, an' we would not.
You said you were sorry, in the sight of God an' of man, for your fault--that your heart was sore, an' that you felt our forgiveness would bring you consolation; but we would not.

Ould man," she exclaimed abruptly, turning to her husband, "why didn't you forgive our only daughter?
Why, I say, didn't you forgive her her one fault--you wicked ould man, why didn't you forgive her ?" "Oh, Kathleen, I'll die," he replied, mournfully, "I'll die if I don't get something to ait.