If such a thought
approached Larkin's heart, it was at once repelled. Assuredly, he
had more faith in his countrymen--more faith in the fidelity and
generosity of his race--than to believe they would suffer one of those
orphans to want loving, helping, guiding hands. As he himself said, he
was not, after all, leaving them fatherless; he was bequeathing them
to Ireland and to God.
And the Father of the Fatherless, even on the instant, raised up a
friend for them--sent an angel missioner of blessed comfort to give
poor Larkin, even on the brink of the grave, assurance that no pang of
poverty should ever wound those little ones thus awfully bereaved. One
day the confessor met the prisoners with beaming face, holding in his
hand a letter. It was from the Dowager Marchioness of Queensbury, to
the condemned Irishmen in Salford gaol, and ran as follows:--
MY DEAR FRIENDS--
It may be that those few lines may minister some consolation
to you on your approaching departure from this world. I send
you by the hands of a faithful messenger some help for your
wife, or wives, and children, in their approaching irreparable
loss, and with the assurance that so long as I live they shall
be cared for to the utmost of my power.
Mr. M'Donnell, the bearer of this for me, will bring me their
address, and the address of the priest who attends you.
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