God help me, I'm glad--an', now, that I'm comin' near it--loth to see
her grave."
He had now reached the verge of the graveyard. Its fine old ruin stood
there as usual, but not altogether without the symptoms of change. Some
persons had, for the purposes of building, thrown down one of its
most picturesque walls. Still its ruins clothed with ivy, its mullions
moss-covered, its gothic arches and tracery, gray with age, were the
same in appearance as he had ever seen them.
On entering this silent palace of Death, he reverently uncovered his
head, blessed himself, and, with feelings deeply agitated, sought the
grave of his beloved child. He approached it; but a sudden transition
from sorrow to indignation took place in his mind, even before he
reached the spot on which she lay. "Sacred Mother!" he exclaimed, "who
has dared to bury in our ground? Who has--what villain has attimpted to
come in upon the M'Carthys--upon the M'Carthy Mores, of Tubber Derg? Who
could--had I no friend to prev--eh? Sacred Mother, what's this? Father
of heaven forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Saviour, for this bad feelin'
I got into! Who--who--could raise a head-stone over the darlin' o' my
heart, widout one of us knowin' it! Who--who could do it? But let me see
if I can make it out. Oh, who could do this blessed thing, for the poor
an' the sorrowful?" He began, and with difficulty read as follows:--
"Here lies the body of Alice M'Carthy, the beloved daughter of Owen and
Kathleen M'Carthy, aged nine years.
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