Everything therefore, had been arranged;
and Owen had nothing to do but hold himself in readiness for the welcome
arrival of Frank and his friends.
Owen, however, had no sense of enjoyment when not participated in by his
beloved Kathleen. If he felt sorrow, it was less as a personal feeling
than as a calamity to her.
If he experienced happiness, it was doubly sweet to him as reflected
from his' Kathleen. All this was mutual between them. Kathleen loved
Owen precisely as he loved Kathleen. Nor let our readers suppose that
such characters are not in humble life. It is in humble life, where
the Springs of feeling are not corrupted by dissimulation and evil
knowledge, that the purest, and tenderest, and strongest virtues are to
be found.
As Owen approached his home, he could not avoid contrasting the
circumstances of his return now with those under which, almost
broken-hearted after his journey to Dublin, he presented himself to his
sorrowing and bereaved wife about eighteen years before. He raised
his hat, and thanked God for the success which had, since that period,
attended him, and, immediately after his silent thanksgiving, entered
the house.
His welcome, our readers may be assured, was tender and affectionate.
The whole family gathered about him, and, on his informing them that
they were once more about to reside on a farm adjoining to their beloved
Tubber Derg, Kathleen's countenance brightened, and the tear of delight
gushed to her eyes.
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