"Owen!" she exclaimed; "Owen, _a-suilish mahuil agus machree!_ (* light
of my eyes and of my heart) I doubt we wor wrong in thinkin' of this
journey. How can you, mavourneen, walk all the way to Dublin, and you so
worn and weakly with that sickness, and the bad feedin' both before and
since? Och, give it up, achree, and stay wid us, let what will happen.
You're not able for sich a journey, indeed you're not. Stay wid me
and the childher, Owen; sure we'd be so lonesome widout you--will you,
agrah? and the Lord will do for us some other way, maybe."
Owen pressed his faithful wife to his heart, and kissed her chaste lips
with a tenderness which the heartless votaries of fashionable life can
never know.
"Kathleen, asthore," he replied, in those terms of endearment which flow
so tenderly through the language of the people; "sure whin I remimber
your fair young face--your yellow hair, and the light that was in your
eyes, acushla machree--but that's gone long ago--och, don't ax me to
stop. Isn't your lightsome laugh, whin you wor young, in my ears? and
your step that 'ud not bend the flower of the field--Kathleen, I can't,
indeed I can't, bear to think of what you wor, nor of what you are now,
when in the coorse of age and natur, but a small change ought to be upon
you! Sure I ought to make every struggle to take you and these sorrowful
crathurs out of the state you're in.
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