Juliana smoothed out the paper, and began to read in a high-pitched monotonous voice, and without any regard to punctuation, of which, indeed, in all probability, the letter was devoid.

"'Dear Mrs. McNally,—I write these few lines hoping you are quite well as I am at present thank God it's a long time since we come across each other but I haven't forgot the old times and I am sure yourself is the same I did be hearin' a while ago about the fine family of daughters you have God bless them and how well you prospered in business dear Mrs. McNally I have one son a fine young man that I do be anxious to settle in life—'

"Look at that now!" put in Mrs. McNally jocularly. "Didn't I say the letter was more for you than for me, girls?"

"Whisht! can't you whisht?" put in Henrietta eagerly. "Go on, Ju!"

"'Settle in life,' resumed Ju. 'The farm is doin' finely for me thanks be to God though I'm not able to stock it as well as I'd like these bad times.' He's lookin' out for a bit o' money, ye see, m'mah?"

"To be sure he is," responded her mother comfortably. "Trust Tim Brennan to be lookin' out for that. An' why wouldn't he, the poor ould fellow? Dear knows, it's hard set the most o' the farmers is to live at all. He's a cute ould schemer, Tim is, though."

"'There's not one o' the girls in these parts I'd let him take up with at all,' went on the reader, 'but it come to me mind that if you was willin' we might make up a match between himself an' one o' your fine young daughters—'

"Yous 'ull have all the luck, I suppose?" put in Maggie Nolan enviously.

"Not at all. What's that he says here about nieces, Ju?" returned Mrs. McNally, leaning over her daughter's shoulder, and pointing with her plump forefinger.

"'Or maybe one of them three nieces I was hearin' ye have livin' with ye I knew your poor sister Bridget R.I.P. as well as I know yourself an' I know all she done for her family.'"

"The sharpness o' that!" interrupted Henrietta. "The ould fellow knows me A'nt Bridget had a nice little fortun', an' I'll engage he made sure the three of yous has a share in the business."

"Young nieces," soliloquised Matilda, looking pensively at Bridget and Mary.

"Young daughters, too, if ye please," returned Bridget with spirit, and her glance fell upon Juliana.

"Well, go on, Ju, finish it," said Mrs. McNally, laughing immoderately. "You can all be pulling caps for him afterwards."

"'Me son,' read Juliana, 'has business in Dublin this next week an' if you've no objections he could run out on an early train some mornin' an' pay his respects to yourself an' the girls an' he can be tellin' ye all about our place an' his prospects in life he's the only son I have an' its a good farm an' a comfortable house an' many a girl would think she was doin' well for herself so hopin' you'll think well of the idea I will say no more this time yours ancettery, TIMOTHY BRENNAN. P.S.—My son Brian is six foot high an' has a beautiful head of hair he is very—' What in the name o' fortun' is that word, m'mah?"

"Hearty, is it?" said Mrs. McNally, craning her short neck. "No—happy, maybe—no, that's not it. Healthy, that's it! 'He is very healthy.'"

"Laws!" said Henrietta, "that's a quare thing to be sayin'. Who cares whether he's healthy or not?"

"A-ah, me dear," returned her mother sagely, "when ye get to my age ye'll know it makes a great deal o' differ—especially to a farmer. The poor d'da! Rest his soul!—well, well, we won't be talkin' o' them times, but he was a great sufferer; an' if it was a farmer he was the house wouldn't have held him. It's a terrible thing for a poor farmer to be tryin' to go about his place, an' him not gettin' his health. I'm glad this young fellow is healthy."

"Six foot!" commented Matilda, who was inclined to be sentimental.

"A beautiful head of hair," exclaimed Anna Maria, with a giggle. "Troth, if it's me he takes a fancy to I'll be combin' it for him."

"Well," said Juliana indignantly, "I think ye're takin' too much on yourself, Nanny, to go pickin' him up that way. There's others has a better right to be considered first."

"You're the oldest, of course," said Anna Maria meekly.

"There's others older nor her, though," burst out Bridget.

"The oldest daughter has the first claim," cried Juliana, with heightened colour.

"To be sure, to be sure," said Mrs. McNally nervously. She was very much in awe of her firstborn, who was indeed possessed of a considerable amount of determination. "The young man, of course, 'ull make his own choice, but I must say I think it 'ud be only becoming if it was Ju."

Juliana glanced triumphantly round on the row of crestfallen faces, and a sudden silence fell, during which Elleney, who had stood listening with deep interest, suddenly remembered the now sodden toast and handed it dutifully round.

Maggie Nolan's eyes met hers in wrathful protest as she helped herself.

"Did ye ever see sich a girl as Ju?" she whispered.

"A regular grab-all. Of course if me a'nt goes favourin' her, the poor fellow 'ull have to take her. But I pity him, aye do I."

"Sure maybe he won't," whispered Elleney back, consolingly. "He'll be apt to be pickin' wan o' the young ones—I shouldn't wonder if it was yourself, Maggie."

"If it wasn't for the money I dare say you'd have as good a chance as the rest of us," said Maggie, mollified by this tribute; "but of course the father wouldn't hear of any girl without a fortun'."

By an odd freak of fate, however, it was Elleney who first had speech with Brian Brennan when he came to seek a wife in Mrs. McNally's house. Elleney, indeed, was not in the house when his eyes first fell upon her; she was kneeling on the doorstep, scrubbing it with might and main. He had driven out from Dublin instead of coming by train, and arrived in consequence earlier than was expected. Elleney wore the pink cotton frock in which she went about her work of a morning; her sleeves were rolled up, and her skirt pinned back. Her face was flushed with a lovely colour, and the breeze lifted loose strands of her nut-brown hair, as she squatted back on her heels in answer to the stranger's salutation.

"Is Mrs. McNally within? I think she's expecting me."

"Oh," said Elleney, looking up with those big astonished eyes of hers, "is it Mr. Brennan?"

"It's that same," responded Brian cheerfully.

Elleney jumped up, knocking over her pail in her agitation, and wiped her little damp hands on her apron.

"Me a'nt is in the shop," she said hurriedly. "If ye'll walk inside I'll call her in a minute."

"A-ha!" said Mr. Brian, "you're one o' the nieces, are ye? Are the rest anyways like ye?"

"They wouldn't take it as a compliment if ye were to say so," replied Elleney. "This way, sir."

The big young man followed her into the parlour. He was a very big young man, and he had a beautiful head of hair, black and curly; and he looked extremely well fed and pleased with the world in general.

"Bless me, child, what a show ye are!" exclaimed Mrs. McNally, when Elleney breathlessly summoned her. "Look at your sleeves, and your skirt tucked up an' all. I declare I'm ashamed of my life—"

"How could I know it was him?" protested Elleney.

"To be sure, to be sure, none of us expected him; an' any way it doesn't matter about you. Here, pull down your sleeves, dear, and take my place for a bit. Where's Ju?"

"She's above, doin' her hair, and Henny's sewin' the bows on her dress."

"Well, well, I'll call them. You'll have to keep the shop goin' altogether, Elleney, this day. All the girls is wild to have a chance, an' I know ye won't mind doin' a bit extra."

"I wonder which it will be," meditated Elleney. "If I was him I'd take Nanny."

But Mr. Brian seemed quite unmoved by Nanny's rollicking charms. He was, indeed, to some extent struck by the appearance of Juliana, who, with her hair done up into what her mother called a "shin-on"—a fashion much affected when she was a young woman—and wearing a silk dress with flounces innumerable of the terra-cotta hue beloved, for some occult reason, of her kind, entered the room with an air of stately magnificence. The young visitor was very respectful to Juliana, and spoke in particularly genteel tones when addressing her. But his eyes wandered perpetually towards the door, and an acute observer might have detected a certain lengthening of visage at each fresh arrival on the scene.

When the seven specimens of maidenhood, from among whom he was expected to make his choice, were at length seated in various constrained attitudes about the room, a dead silence fell, broken only by an occasional nervous remark from Mrs. McNally, and a monosyllabic response from the wooer. The relief was general when the "decent body," engaged to help for the day, opened the door with a very black hand, kicked it still further back with a gaping shoe, and finally entered the room bearing a large tray.

A repast, which the lady aforesaid subsequently described as "sumpchus," soon adorned the board, and Mrs. McNally, with a deprecating giggle, advised Brian to sit next the partner he liked best.

He hesitated, and cast a baffled glance round the room.

"Sure the whole of the family isn't here, is it?" he inquired.

"How many more would you want?" returned Juliana, with a playfulness strongly tinged with asperity.

"Didn't I see another young lady an' I comin' in?" he persisted.

"Who in the name of wonder did he see, m'mah?" whispered Henrietta, while the others looked blank.

"I b'lieve 'twas Elleney let him in," said Mrs. McNally. "The poor fellow, he's that well-mannered he thinks bad o' sittin' down without her. We're all here that can be here at present, Mr. Brian," she remarked aloud. "Little Elleney that ye seen awhile ago is mindin' the shop for me. We'll keep a bit hot for her till I go to take her place."

"Oh! that indeed?" said Brian rather blankly. "Isn't it clever of her to be able to mind the shop, and she so young? I s'pose she's the youngest of them?"

"Well, there isn't much to choose between her and Maggie there," returned his hostess; "and, indeed, I may say the same o' my daughter Anna Maria. There is but a year between the three, one way or the other. Well, since you're so bashful, Mr. Brian, I'd best choose a place for ye. Will ye sit there on me right, between Bridget and Juliana? There does be safety in numbers, they say, so ye needn't be afeard."

"Afeard is it?" responded Brian, with simulated jocularity, though his countenance still wore an expression of dismay. "Troth! it 'ud be a poor lookout if I was that easy frightened. 'Faint heart,' ye know."

But, though Mr. Brennan was very gallant and witty, the entertainment was felt by every one to be somewhat flat, and the relief was general when the young man proposed to go outside and smoke a bit of a pipe. Mrs. McNally, however, considered it her duty to protest.

"Sure, we're not that particular," she observed, with her jolly laugh. "Don't be goin' out in the cold, Mr. Brian."

"Why, what sort of a fellow would I be at all if I could forget myself that way," he returned, rising with alacrity. "Would ye have me pizenin' the young ladies? I hope I know me manners better."

"There's no denyin' he has elegant manners," commented his hostess, as the door closed behind him. "I never wish to see a nicer young man. Well, girls, what do ye think of him!"

"The poor fellow was shy, m'mah," said Juliana. "He kept blushin' every time I looked at him."

"A-ah, g' long!" exclaimed Bridget, with startling warmth. "Not a blush on him, then! Sure, it was his natural colour; he has a beautiful complexion."

"His eyes was rovin' from one to the other," cried Anna Maria, giggling; "I was near dyin' with laughin'. You could see as plain as anything he was axin' himself all the time, "Will I have this one,' or 'Will I have that one?'"

"A-ah, not at all," cried Juliana, reddening. "I didn't see a sign of his eyes rovin'. Anybody with a grain of sense 'ud know his mind was pretty well made up."

"Listen to that, now!" laughed Nanny, who was certainly good-tempered. "You're out there, Ju. No; but I'll tell you the way it was with him. Says he to himself, looking at you, 'That one is the eldest and a fine girl altogether, but her nose is too long.' An' then he'd look round at Bridget, 'She's got a nice bit o' money,' he'd say, 'but she's a bit too old for me.' An' then he'd look at me, 'A nice healthy lump of a girl,' he'd say, 'but too many freckles.' An' then Maggie maybe 'ud have a turn—"

"Och, don't be goin' on with such nonsense, child," interrupted her mother, quick to observe certain tokens of an impending storm. "Don't let him find yez quarrellin' an' fightin' when he does be comin' back. Wait till I tell yez all he's afther tellin' me about his own place. I questioned him a bit afore yez come down."

The girls crowded eagerly round her, and she repeated with unction the description of the various glories which awaited the future Mrs. Brian Brennan.

Every one had forgotten Elleney and her little bit of dinner; every one, that is, except the new-comer, who, after casting a nervous glance at the parlour window on finding himself outside the house, had made straightway for the almost deserted shop.

Customers were not many at that hour of the day, and Elleney had only sold a pound of bacon and a couple of bootlaces since her aunt's departure. She was sorting ribbons with a somewhat melancholy face when Brian passed through the glass door and made his way to the counter.

"Is that where ye have yourself hidden?" he inquired gaily. "They thought to keep ye shut up out o' me sight, but I was a match for them as cute as they were. 'Twas a shame for them not to let you come in to dinner."

"Sure somebody had to mind the shop," returned Elleney. Then her little pink and white face dimpled all over with smiles. "Have ye chose yet, Mr. Brian?" said she.

"Bedad, I think I have," quoth Brian, gazing at her admiringly.

Elleney clapped her hands. "Oh dear, is it Juliana?"

"It's not Juliana, then," said he. "Is that the big one with the top-knot? Sure, what sort of taste d'ye think I have?"

"It wouldn't be Bridget!" cried she, laughing till every little white tooth was visible.

"That's a bad shot—I'm afeard ye're no hand at guessin'."

"I wished it was Nanny," said Elleney earnestly; "she's the best-hearted girl in the world."

"You wished it was her, do ye? Well, I'm sorry I can't gratify ye. My choice was made before I ever set eyes on e'er a one of them."

"Then ye'd no call to come here at all," interrupted Elleney indignantly.

"Whisht! Don't be bitin' the nose off me that way. Ye little schemer, ye know very well it's yerself that carries all before ye. Sure, who'd have eyes for any one else when you were to the fore?"

"Och, Mr. Brian, it's a shame for ye!" cried Elleney, with flashing eyes. "Ye've no right to come givin' me impidence that way. I'll call me a'nt."

"An' what would ye do that for? It's the truth I'm tellin' ye, darlint. The very first minute I seen ye on the doorstep the heart leapt out o' me breast. You're my choice, mavourneen, though I don't so much as know your name yet."

Elleney gazed at him timidly. He was a pleasant-looking young fellow, and his eyes were very kind. She turned quite pale because of the rapid beating of her heart. What a wonderful thing it was that the prize over whom all her rich cousins had been disputing should have fallen to her share—to her, poor little penniless Elleney.

"It's too good of you entirely," she was beginning in a tremulous voice; "but I don't think you ought to go disappintin' your father and me a'nt."

But before she could proceed further in her little speech the narrow door which gave access to the house was thrown open and Mary Nolan appeared upon the scene.

"Elleney, you're to—" she was beginning, when she suddenly stopped, and, to use her own expression, "let a yell" that brought her aunt and cousins in tumult to the scene.

"I couldn't for the life o' me help it," she explained as they crowded round her. "When I had the door opened who did I see but himself"—designating Brian—"with his impident arm round Elleney's waist—the bould little scut!"

"Sure, I didn't ax him to put it there," protested Elleney, beginning to cry; "I didn't rightly know what he was doin'."

"Ladies," said the suitor, "don't disthress yourselves. There wasn't a ha'porth of harm in it—me arm was in the right place. I come here by my father's wish an' with your consent, ma'am, to choose one o' your family for my wife. Me clargy wouldn't let me marry the whole of yez, so I have to be content with one, an' I'm after choosin' this one."

Juliana laughed shrilly and ironically, and Henrietta clapped her hands together; the rest stood round with stony faces, except Nanny, who cast a dubious and compassionate glance at Elleney.

"Lord save us!" ejaculated Mrs. McNally, when she had recovered her wits, "I never thought o' such a thing. I had a right to have told ye—it's a mistake. Me poor young man, come away with me an' I'll tell ye."

"No mistake at all, ma'am," Brian was beginning, with a bright backward glance at Elleney; but Mrs. McNally clutched him by the arm, looking so much disturbed the while, that the words died on his lips, and he suffered himself to be drawn along the passage and into the parlour. The others also melted away with many scornful murmurs and withering glances, all except Nanny, who hurled herself round the counter and caught Elleney in her arms.



"Ye poor misfortunate innicent!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't ye tell him ye weren't rightly one o' the family?"

"He didn't give me time," faltered Elleney; adding with more spirit, "Besides, what matter if it's me he likes the best?"

"Bless us an' save us!" groaned Nanny; "sure how can ye get married when ye haven't so much as a one pound note o' your own?"

"Do you think he didn't know?" gasped Elleney, looking very blank.

"Not a know," responded Nanny, with decision. "My mother had a right to have told him, but some way not one of us dreamed of him thinkin' of you. Sure, girl alive, if he was willin' itself, his father 'ud never agree to his havin' ye."

"I s'pose not," said Elleney; "but ye don't know all he's afther sayin' to me, Nanny."

"Och, divil doubt him!" exclaimed Nanny, with a vexed laugh. "Sure, that's the way they all does be goin' on. If ye had more sense, Elleney, me dear, ye'd know how to be up to them. Whisht!—here's m'mah!"

Poor Mrs. McNally's heavy foot was now heard hastening along the passage, and in another minute she entered—alone, her kind face was all puckered up with concern, and at first sight of it Elleney knew exactly how matters stood. She disengaged herself from Nanny and went quietly up to her aunt.

"I hope you explained to him that I didn't rightly understand what he was sayin'," she observed with a certain childish dignity that took the others by surprise. "It was all a mistake, of course, but there's no great harm done."

"Not a bit of harm at all, me dear," groaned Mrs. McNally. "Not a bit of harm in the world—only for the disappointment."

"No disappointment," returned Elleney; her eyes were steady, though that red under-lip of hers would quiver; "no disappointment, a'nt, I hope. He'll be sure to pick out one of the girls, won't he?"

"I b'lieve so," answered Mrs. McNally, propping herself against the counter. "He's afther tellin' me his father 'ud be the death of him if—"

"Sure that's all right," interrupted her niece. "Nanny, you ought to go and see to him."

"Do, Nanny," said the mother. "He was askin' for you."

"Then he may ask away," retorted Nanny. "Do ye remember the story o' the Connaught woman who said 'Purse, will ye have him?' when the fellow made up to her for her money. My purse says 'No.' Let him try Juliana. Is that the bar bell ringing?"

"Aye, it is; ye'd best be off an' see what's wanted. Bridget and Mary is so taken up with that young fellow I declare they don't know whether they're on their heads or their heels."

"Aye, indeed," cried Anna Maria with her jolly laugh. "I seen them prancin' round him like a couple o' goats, as old as they are."

She vanished, and Mrs. McNally also went away.

Some time later Pat Rooney entered the shop, bearing a large tray of newly-baked loaves. His face wore a solemn, not to say sulky, expression, and he looked neither to right nor to left. Before he had finished piling up the loaves in their allotted corner, however, a suspicious sound attracted his attention, and he turned reluctantly round. A small figure was crouching in the darkest angle of the "dress department," with its apron over its head.

"Is it cryin' ye are?" said Pat sternly.

For all answer Elleney sobbed afresh.

The young man drew nearer, and Elleney tilted up one elbow as a hint to him to keep his distance.

"Bedad, ye have no right to be cryin'," remarked Pat in a withering tone. "It was the other way wid ye altogether when I looked in through the door a while ago, on my way back from me dinner. If I hadn't seen it wid me own two eyes," he added with scornful severity, "I wouldn't have believed it was you that was in it at all."

Elleney jerked down her apron, and looked up with eyes that blazed beneath their swollen lids.

"How dar' ye speak to me that way?" she cried.

Pat snorted: "To be sure I've no right to say a word at all," he returned, with wrathful irony. "A poor fellow like meself has no call to have any feelin's—but ye might have knocked me down with a feather when I seen that strange chap with his arm about your waist."

"Oh Pat!" gasped Elleney, and overcome with shame and woe, she burst into fresh tears, and buried her face in the unresponsive folds of a linsey-woolsey petticoat which dangled from a peg beside her.

Pat immediately melted.

"Amn't I the terrible ould ruffian to go upsettin' ye that way!" he groaned remorsefully. "There now, Miss Elleney, don't mind me. I'm not meself to-day. I'm a regular ould gomeril. Sure it had to come sooner or later. It's meself knew very well I'd have to stan' by and see ye carried off some fine day by whoever was lucky enough to get ye. Some fellows has all the luck in this world, and maybe they're no better nor others that hasn't any luck at all."

But Elleney scarcely heeded the latter part of this speech; it seemed to her she could never lift up her head again. Pat knew—Pat had seen!

"Oh dear," she sobbed inarticulately, after a pause, "I think I'll die with the shame of it. I don't know how I come to let him do it at all, but I didn't rightly know—I didn't think—an'—an' he said he was so fond of me an' 'twas me he wanted for his wife."

"Faith," retorted Pat, "it's himself's the gentleman doesn't let the grass grow under his feet—an' why would he? Well, alanna," he continued in an altered tone, "don't be frettin' yourself anyway. Bedad, I wouldn't blame—"

"Ah, but I blame myself," interrupted Elleney, wringing her poor little hands. "I'll—I'll never look up again afther the disgrace he's afther puttin' on me. Sure 'twas all a mistake—he thought I was one of the family, an' when me a'nt tould him the way it is with me, he just tossed me away the same as an ould shoe. I b'lieve he's makin' up to Juliana now."

Pat emitted a kind of roar, but, before he could ventilate his feelings further, the door communicating with the house was quickly opened and Mr. Brian Brennan walked in.

"Are ye there, darlint?" he inquired, in a tone of melancholy tenderness; "I'm just come to tell ye the poor case I'm in—"

"Then ye'll be in a poorer case in something less than no time if ye don't behave yourself, me brave young gentleman!" cried a choked voice in his ear, and almost before he could realise what was taking place, Brian Brennan found his six-foot length laid low upon the dusty shop floor, while his beautiful head of hair rolled aimlessly about amid a collection of boots and tin buckets. Pat Rooney was sitting on his chest, his knees pinioning his arms, and clutching each of his broad shoulders with a vigorous hand. He was not half the size of the prostrate giant, but love and fury lent him unnatural strength. His flour-bedecked face worked convulsively, his eyes gleamed under their powdered lashes.

Elleney uttered a stifled scream, and then stood transfixed with horror.

"Ye passed your word to Miss Elleney a while ago that it was her ye'd have for your wife," said Pat firmly. "Are ye goin' to stick to your promise or are ye not?"

"Get up out o' that, ye ruffian," spluttered Brian. "What business is it of yours anyway?"

"Ruffian yourself!" said Pat. And he heaved up Mr. Brennan's shoulders a little way, and then loosed his hold suddenly, so that the fine curly head bumped once more against the tin pails. "Will ye gi' me a straight answer, or will ye not?"

"I'll pay ye out for this when I get upon my legs!" growled Brian. "As for that young lady, she knows very well I can't—"

"Ye can't what?" cried Pat, rolling a threatening eye at him.

"I can't keep my word," said Mr. Brennan, with as much dignity as was compatible with his position.

"Ye mean ye won't, I s'pose," remarked Pat, with ominous calm.

"Well, then, I won't!" shouted Brian, heaving himself up at the same time with a futile attempt to rid himself of his adversary.

"Ah!" retorted Pat, tightening his grasp on the powerless shoulders, and repeating his previous manoeuvre with such success that his victim saw a multitude of stars. "Ye won't, won't ye? No; but ye will!—I tell ye, ye will! Ye will, me fine gentleman!"

With each reiteration of the phrase the unfortunate Brian's head received fresh damage, and Pat, who was warming to his work, had just announced that he was going to give Mr. Brian the finest thrashing he ever had in his life, when Elleney, who had hitherto been petrified with alarm and amazement, rushed to the rescue.

"In the name o' goodness, Pat Rooney," she cried, in a voice that trembled as much with anger as with fear, "get up this minute! It's outrageous—altogether outrageous!"

"Never fear, Miss Elleney, asthore!" cried Pat triumphantly, baring his arms the while for action. "Run away out o' this while I tache him manners! The dirty spalpeen! He'll not have it all his own way, anyhow. I'll give him a trimmin'!"

"I forbid ye, Pat, to do any such thing!" cried Elleney, almost with a shriek. "I declare I'm ashamed o' my life! Who gave you leave to go mixin' up my name?—makin' so little of me? Oh dear! oh dear!" and the poor child began to sob again. "What have I done to be disgraced an' tormented that way!"

Her blue eyes were drowned in tears, her pretty cheeks blanched.

Pat sat back on his prostrate foe, and stared up at her with astonished concern. Elleney sobbed louder than before, and Brian, raising his voice, uttered a forcible expression of opinion.

"Bless us an' save us!" exclaimed a voice in the passage, and the door, being thrown wide open, revealed the portly form and scandalised face of no less a person than Mrs. McNally herself.

"Who is it that's cursin' an swearin' that way?" she began, but broke off abruptly as she realised the scene within.

"Oh, a'nt, me heart's broke entirely!" cried Elleney, running to her, and hiding her face on her ample shoulder.

Pat cleared his throat diffidently, insensibly relaxing his grip the while, so that, with a slight effort, Brian was enabled to roll him on to the floor, and to rise, looking very sheepish.

"Was it fightin' the two of yez was?" said Mrs. McNally severely. "Sure, that's a disgrace. Look at your coat all over dust, Mr. Brennan, and the big lump on your forehead risin' up the size of an egg!"

Brian squinted over his shoulder to ascertain the condition of his coat, but being unable to carry out the rest of Mrs. McNally's injunctions and survey the lump on his own forehead, he passed his hand over it instead, and turned towards Pat with an expression of virtuous indignation.

"That fellow there was near bein' the death of me," he exclaimed.

"Musha! what is it all about at all?" queried Mrs. McNally. "Elleney, quit cryin' an' tell me what happened ye? What was that impident fellow Pat doin' rollin' Mr. Brennan on the floor?"

Elleney shook her head, and wept, and nearly throttled her aunt, but entered on no explanation.

Quick steps were now heard in the passage, and Anna Maria burst in.

"What in the world is Elleney cryin' for?" she exclaimed; "an' goodness gracious! look at Mr. Brennan, the show he is! Is it up the chimney ye were? For the matter of that Pat isn't much better. What's all this, m'mah?"

"I'm sure I couldn't tell ye, me dear," returned her mother. "I can't get a word o' sense out of any of them. Brian Brennan here says that Pat is afther bein' the death of him."

"Ah, then now," cried Anna Maria sarcastically, "isn't he very delicate, the poor fellow, to be so near made an end of by a little fellow half his size!"

"I was took by surprise," explained Mr. Brian, with dignity, "or I could easy have settled him with one finger."

"Well, but what call had ye to go doin' it, Pat?" insisted Anna Maria. "'Twasn't your place to go knocking a visitor down, I think."

"I'm very sorry, miss, if ye think I'm afther takin' a liberty," returned Pat firmly; "but I'd knock any man down who went to insult Miss Elleney."

Elleney dropped her arms from her aunt's neck and whisked round, her blue eyes blazing through her tears.

"I'll thank ye not to be mixin' yerself up with my business at all, Pat Rooney. Nobody asked you to meddle."

"Was it Mr. Brennan ye were cryin' about, me poor child?" said Mrs. McNally, in a compassionate but distinctly audible whisper.

Brian shot a melting glance towards her.

"Upon me word," he was beginning plaintively, when Elleney interrupted him with a little shriek of exasperation, and a stamp of her foot.

"Oh dear, oh dear, everything is contrairy this day! I'd have ye to know, Mr. Brennan, that I'd be long sorry to cry for you—if ye was to go down on your two knees I'd never have ye! I know the kind o' young man ye are now, an' I'll not fret after ye. I couldn't help cryin' at first at the disrespectful way ye were afther treatin' me, but I wouldn't have anything to say to ye now for the whole world."

"Well done!" cried Pat approvingly, while Anna Maria giggled.

"Maybe there's others that thinks different," said Brian in a nettled tone.

"Oh yes," put in Anna Maria quickly, "her elders and betters—was that what you were goin' to say? Juliana's to be had, Mr. Brian. She'd be a mother to ye."

"Upon me word, Nanny," said Mrs. McNally, "it doesn't become ye to be talkin' that way of your elder sister."

"Sure, what harm?" responded Nanny blithely. "All I said was she'd be a mother to him. Sure, what could be better than that?"

Brian, with all his faults, was gifted with a sense of humour, and looked at Anna Maria with a twinkle in his eye.

"Bedad," he said, "I've that much respect for Miss Juliana I'd be afraid o' me life to ask her to put up with me."

"Well, there's Bridget then," said Nanny. "Bridget's a fine girl, an' she's got a fine fortun', an' the whole of us knows that's what you're lookin' afther, Mr. Brian."

"I wouldn't say that altogether," said Brian, stammering a little. "Yous all know the way it is with me. 'Tis me father that's makin' the match for me, and I have to choose one of the family. No one can feel more sorry nor I do for the unfort'nate mistake I'm afther makin'; I went altogether too quick, and I was very much to blame. I'm sure I ax Miss Elleney's pardon."

Elleney made a little inarticulate rejoinder, and turned away. Pat looked daggers at his whilom victim, and Mrs. McNally, folding her arms, looked sternly round.

"The less said about some things the better," she remarked. "Mr. Brian, I'll trouble ye to go into the parlour—ye'd best go with him too, Nanny; all the girls are there."

"Will ye step up to the show-room?" said Nanny, with a giggle.

"Troth," returned Brian, who was now in some measure recovering his self-possession, "I think the best o' the stock is what I'm afther seein' in the shop."

He followed her out of the room, and a slight scuffle was presently heard in the passage. Mrs. McNally solemnly closed the door, and came back to Pat and Elleney, who stood looking equally downcast and confused.

"I'd like to know, Pat Rooney," she said, gazing at the young man sternly, "what talk at all this is between you and me niece? What business is it o' yours to interfere? I don't understand it at all, Elleney—I'm very much put about—"

"It's no fault of Miss Elleney's, ma'am," said Pat quickly. "She'd nothin' to say to it at all. I forgot meself altogether. When I seen that fellow makin' little of a chance that I'd give the two eyes out o' my head for—"

"O Pat, whisht for goodness sake!" interrupted Elleney. "Ye oughtn't to be talkin' like that."

"Sure I know that very well, Miss Elleney, darlint—I know I might just as well be cryin' for the moon. But the murder's out now, an' 'pon me word I'm glad of it. I couldn't stop here the way I am—I'd go mad altogether. I'll throuble ye to look out for another boy, Mrs. McNally, ma'am—I wish to leave in a week's time."

Mrs. McNally gasped.

"Isn't it the great fool you are, Pat Rooney, to go give up your good place for a stupid notion like this? Ye know Miss Elleney 'ud never demean herself to you."

"Ay, ma'am, I know she looks on me as the dirt under her feet."

"Then stop where ye are," said Mrs. McNally, comfortably. "You're a very good boy when you don't let your wits go wool-gatherin'. As for my niece, she's no notion of encouragin' any nonsense—have ye, Elleney?"

Elleney's long lashes were downcast, and she nervously twisted her apron.

"Sure ye haven't, dear?" said her aunt persuasively. "Tell the poor foolish fellow that ye haven't, an' then he'll be puttin' it altogether out of his head."

Elleney raised her eyes and looked at Pat, and then dropped them again.

"He's the only one in the wide world that cares for me," she said, with a quivering lip.

"Bless us and save us!" gasped Mrs. McNally. "If that's the way it is, Pat, ye'd best be off with yourself."

Pat turned as red as a cherry, and then as white as his own flour.

"Miss Elleney, dear," he whispered, "d'ye know what ye're sayin'? D'ye know I'm such a great big fool that I'm beginning to think the most outrageous nonsense. I'll be beginnin' to think soon, me jewel, that ye might some day be gettin' a bit fond o' me, an' maybe say Yes when I ax ye a question. Sure ye didn't think of that, alanna?"

"Will ye whisht, ye impident fellow?" cried Mrs. McNally angrily. "Of course she thought o' no such thing."

Elleney turned her sweet eyes deprecatingly towards her aunt, and murmured very faintly—

"I don't know—I—I think I did."

* * * * *

Half-an-hour afterwards Mrs. McNally entered the parlour with a dubious, almost timid, expression on her good-natured face. Most of her family was gathered round the hearth, talking in muffled tones, and with gloomy countenances. Behind the window-curtain Brian Brennan and Anna Maria were tittering together. Mrs. McNally jerked her thumb inquiringly over her shoulder, and raised her eyebrows.

"Is that the way it is?" she whispered.

"You'd better ask them," returned Juliana, with her nose in the air.

Bridget sniffed audibly.

"She reg'larly thrun herself at his head," said Mary spitefully.

"Did I indeed?" said Nanny, emerging from behind the window-curtain. "Brian here could tell yous a different story. He's been beggin' an' prayin' this half-hour, an' I haven't give him an answer yet."

"Ah, but you will!" said Brian, with an ingratiating smile.

"If I do then it 'ull be for the sake of servin' you out. Ye never heard the like of the life I'll be leadin' ye. Ye'll only be sorry once, an' that'll be for ever."

"I'll risk that," said Brian gallantly.

"Well, well, well," said Mrs. McNally, clapping her hands; "so it's to be you, Nanny! 'Pon me word it rains weddin's this evenin'. I don't know whether I'm on me head or me heels. There's Elleney, now—nothin'll serve her but to go takin' up with Pat Rooney."

"Pat Rooney!" exclaimed Anna Maria, while the rest of the family echoed the name in varying tones of shrill disapproval.

"Aye, indeed," said Mrs. McNally, dropping into a chair.

"Pat Rooney. Her mind's made up, it seems, and 'pon me word, though I thought she'd have looked higher, I can't altogether blame the girl. Sure what sort of a husband can she expect, and her without a penny? An old widower maybe, or maybe a fellow with one leg. Pat's gettin' good wages, an' the two of them were talkin' o' takin' that little thatched cabin just out of the town—"

"A cabin!" said Juliana, and began to turn up her eyes, and to make a strange clucking noise in her throat.

"For goodness' sake, Ju, don't be goin' off in highsterics," cried Nanny quickly. "Sure what matter if 'tis a cabin itself! I'll engage she'll keep it as clean as a new pin—and she's a great hand at her needle, so she is. Sure she'll be able to do dressmakin' for the quality."

"An' of course," said Mrs. McNally, casting a deprecating glance round at the irate faces, "we mustn't forget she doesn't rightly belong to the family. Tis no disgrace to us at all, an' really an' truly, girls, I'm almost glad to think she's comfortably settled."

"To be sure," said Bridget, "she's no relation at all to any of us. A little girl that me a'nt took in out of charity. Why wouldn't she marry the baker—"

"My blessin' to her!" said Mary sourly.

Juliana left off clucking, and smiled sarcastically. "She isn't breakin' her heart after you, Mr. Brian, at any rate," she remarked. "She wasn't long in getting over her disappointment."

"I must say I didn't think she'd make so little of herself," he returned, drawing himself up.

"How d'ye like that, Nanny?" said Juliana spitefully. "I declare Mr. Brian's quite upset."

"Ah, the poor fellow, is he?" said Anna Maria, whose good-humour was imperturbable. "I declare I'll have to get married to him now if it's only to comfort him."

And thereupon she burst into a hearty laugh, in which Brian Brennan joined.



IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD

It was intensely, suffocatingly hot, though the windows on either side of the long room were wide open; the patients lay languidly watching the flies on the ceiling, the sunshine streaming over the ochre-tinted wall, the flickering light of the little lamp which burned night and day beneath the large coloured statue of St. Patrick in the centre of the ward. It was too hot even to talk. Granny M'Gee—who, though not exactly ill, was old and delicate enough to be permitted to remain permanently in the Union Infirmary instead of being relegated to the workhouse proper—dozed in her wicker chair with her empty pipe between her wrinkled fingers. Once, as she loved to relate, she had burnt her lovely fringe with that same pipe—"bad luck to it!" but she invariably hastened to add that her heart 'ud be broke out an' out if it wasn't for the taste o' baccy. Her neighbour opposite was equally fond of snuff, and was usually to be heard lamenting how she had r'ared a fine fam'ly o' boys an' girls, and how notwithstanding she had ne'er a wan to buy her a ha'porth in her ould age. Now, however, for a wonder she was silent, and even the woman nearest the door found it too hot to brandish her distorted wrists, according to her custom when she wished to excite compassion or to plead for alms. There would be no visitors this morning; not the most compassionate of "the ladies," who came to read to and otherwise cheer the poor sufferers of St. Patrick's ward, would venture there on such a day.

The buzzing of the flies aforesaid, the occasional moans of the more feeble patients, the hurried breathing of a poor girl in the last stage of consumption were the only sounds to be heard, except for the quiet footsteps and gentle voice of Sister Louise. There was something refreshing in the very sight of this tall slight figure, in its blue-grey habit and dazzling white "cornette," from beneath which the dark eyes looked forth with sweet and almost childish directness. Sister Louise was not indeed much more than a child in years, and there were still certain inflections in her voice, an elasticity in her movements, a something about her very hands, with their little pink palms and dimpled knuckles, that betrayed the fact. But those babyish hands had done good service since Sister Louise had left the novitiate in the Rue du Bac two years before; that young voice had a marvellous power of its own, and could exhort and reprove as well as soothe and console, and when the blue-robed figure was seen flitting up and down the ward smiles appeared on wan and sorrowful faces, and querulous murmurs were hushed. Even to-day the patients nodded to her languidly as she passed, observing with transitory cheerfulness that they were kilt with the hate, or that it was terrible weather entirely. One crone raised herself sufficiently to remark that it was a fine thing for the counthry, glory be to God! which patriotic sentiment won a smile from Sister Louise, but failed to awaken much enthusiasm in any one else.

The Sister of Charity paused before a bed in which a little, very thin old woman was coiled up with eyes half closed. Mrs. Brady was the latest arrival at St. Patrick's ward, having indeed only "come in" on the preceding day, and Sister Louise thought she would very likely need a little cheering.

"How are you to-day, Mrs. Brady!" she asked, bending over her.

"Why then indeed, ma'am—is it ma'am or Mother I ought to call ye?"

"'Sister'—we are all Sisters here, though some of the people call Sister Superior 'Reverend Mother.'"

"Ah, that indeed?" said Mrs. Brady, raising herself a little in the bed and speaking with great dignity, "Ye see yous are not the sort o' nuns I'm used to, so you'll excuse me if I don't altogether spake the way I ought. Our nuns down in the Queen's County has black veils ye know, ma'am—Sisther I mane—an' not that kind of a white bonnet that you have on your head."

"Well, do you know our patients here get quite fond of our white wings as they call them?" returned Sister Louise, smiling. "But you haven't told me how you are, yet. Better, I hope, and pretty comfortable."

A tear suddenly rolled down Mrs. Brady's cheek, but she preserved her lofty manner.

"Ah yes, thank ye, Sisther, as comfortable as I could expect in a place like this. Of course I niver thought it's here' I'd be, but it's on'y for a short time, thanks be to God! My little boy'll be comin' home from America soon to take me out of it."

"Why, that's good news!" cried the Sister cheerfully. "We must make you quite well and strong—that is as strong as we can"—with a compassionate glance, "by the time he comes. When do you expect him?"

"Any day now, ma'am—Sisther, I mane—aye, indeed, I may say any day an' every day, an' I'm afeard his heart'll be broke findin' me in this place. But no matther!"

Here she shook her head darkly, as though she could say much on that subject, but refrained out of consideration for Sister Louise.

"Well, we must do all we can for you meanwhile," said the latter gently. "Have you made acquaintance with your neighbours yet? Poor Mrs. M'Evoy here is worse off than you, for she can't lift her head just now. Tell Mrs. Brady how it was you hurt your back, Mrs. M'Evoy."

"Bedad, Sisther, ye know yerself it was into the canal I fell wid a can o' milk," said the old woman addressed, squinting fearfully in her efforts to catch a glimpse of the new patient. "The Bishop says the last time he come round, 'I s'pose,' he says, 'ye were goin' to put wather in the milk.' 'No,' says I, 'there was wather enough in it before.'"

Here Mrs. M'Evoy leered gleefully up at the Sister, and one or two feeble chuckles were heard from the neighbouring beds; but Mrs. Brady assumed an attitude which can only be described as one implying a mental drawing away of skirts, and preserved an impenetrable gravity. Evidently she had never associated with "the like" of Mrs. M'Evoy in the circles in which she had hitherto moved.

"And there's Kate Mahony on the other side," pursued Sister Louise, without appearing to notice Mrs. Brady's demeanour. "She has been lying here for seventeen years; haven't you, Kate?"

"Aye, Sisther," said Kate, a thin-faced sweet-looking woman of about forty, looking up brightly.

"Poor Kate!" said the Sister in a caressing tone. "You must get Kate to tell you her story some time, Mrs. Brady. She has seen better days like you."

"Oh, that indeed?" said Mrs. Brady, distantly but politely, and with a dawning interest; "I s'pose you are from the country then, like meself."

"Ah no, ma'am," returned Kate. "I may say I was never three miles away from town. I went into service when I was on'y a slip of a little girl, an' lived with the wan lady till the rheumatic fever took me an' made me what I am now. You're not from this town, I s'pose, ma'am."

"Indeed, I'd be long sorry to come from such a dirty place—beggin' your pardon for sayin' it. No, indeed, I am from the Queen's County, near Mar'boro'. We had the loveliest little farm there ye could see, me an' me poor husband, the Lord ha' mercy on his soul! Aye, indeed, it's little we ever thought—but no matther! Glory be to goodness! my little boy'll be comin' back from America soon to take me out o' this."

"Sure it's well for ye," said Kate, "that has a fine son o' your own to work for ye. Look at me without a crature in the wide world belongin' to me! An' how long is your son in America, ma'am?"

"Goin' on two year now," said Mrs. Brady, with a sigh.

"He'll be apt to be writin' to ye often, I s'pose, ma'am."

"Why then, indeed, not so often. The poor fellow, he was niver much of a hand at the pen. He's movin' about, ye see, gettin' work here an' there."

Sister Louise had moved on, seeing that the pair were likely to make friends; and before ten minutes had elapsed each was in possession of the other's history. Kate's, indeed, was simple enough; her seventeen years in the infirmary being preceded by a quiet life in a very uninteresting neighbourhood; but she "came of decent people," being connected with "the rale ould O'Rorkes," and her father had been "in business"; two circumstances which impressed Mrs. Brady very much, and caused her to unbend towards "Miss Mahony," as she now respectfully called her new acquaintance. The latter was loud in expressions of admiration and sympathy as Mrs. Brady described the splendours of the past; the servant-man and the servant-maid, who, according to her, once formed portion of her establishment; the four beautiful milch cows which her husband kept, besides sheep, and a horse an' car, and "bastes" innumerable; the three little boys they buried, and then Barney—Barney, the jewel, who was now in Amerika.

"The finest little fella ye'd see between this an' County Cork! Over six fut, he is, an' wid a pair o' shoulders on him that ye'd think 'ud hardly get in through that door beyant."

"Lonneys!" said Kate admiringly.

"Aye, indeed, an' ye ought to see the beautiful black curly head of him, an' eyes like sloes, an' cheeks—why I declare"—half raising herself and speaking with great animation, "he's the very moral o' St. Patrick over there! God forgive me for sayin' such a thing, but raly if I was to drop down dead this minute I couldn't but think it! Now I assure ye, Miss Mahony, he's the very image of that blessed statye, 'pon me word!"

Miss Mahony looked appreciatively at the representation of the patron of Ireland, which was remarkable no less for vigour of outline and colouring than for conveying an impression of exceeding cheerfulness, as both the saint himself and the serpent which was wriggling from beneath his feet were smiling in the most affable manner conceivable.

"Mustn't he be the fine boy!" she ejaculated, after a pause. "I'd love to see him—but I'll niver get a chanst o' that, I s'pose. Will he be comin' here to see ye, ma'am?"

"He'll be comin' to take me out of it," returned the mother. "He doesn't raly know I'm in it at all. I'll tell ye now the way it is. When the poor father died—the light o' heaven to him—an' bad times come, and we had to give up our own beautiful little place, Barney brought me to town an' put me with Mrs. Byrne, a very nice respectable woman that was married to a second cousin o' my poor husband's, an' I was to stop with her till he came back from America with his fortune made. Well," pursued Mrs. Brady, drawing in her breath with a sucking sound, which denoted that she had come to an interesting part of her narrative, "well, he kep' sendin' me money, ye know, a pound or maybe thirty shillin' at a time—whenever he could, the poor boy, an' I was able to work the sewin'-machine a little, an' so we made out between us till I took this terrible bad turn. Well, of course troubles niver comes single, an' the last letther I got from my poor little fella had only fifteen shillin' in it, an' he towld me he had the bad luck altogether, but, says he,'My dear mother, ye must on'y howld out the best way ye can. There's no work to be got in this place at all' (New York I think it was). 'But I am goin' out West,' says he, 'to a place where I'm towld there's fortunes made in no time, so I'll be over wid ye soon,' he says, 'wid a power o' money, an' I'm sure Mary Byrne'll be a good friend to ye till then. The worst of it is,' he says, 'it's a terrible wild outlandish place, and I can't be promisin' ye many letthers, for God knows if there'll be a post-office in it at all,' says he; 'but I'll be thinkin' of ye often, an' ye must keep up your heart,' he says. Well," sucking up her breath again, "poor Mrs. Byrne done all she could for me, but of course when it got to be weeks an' months that I was on my back not able to do a hand's turn for meself, an' no money comin' an' no sign o' Barney, what could she do, the crature? One day Dr. Isaacs says to her, 'Mrs. Byrne,' says he, 'why don't ye send poor Mrs. Brady to the Infirmary?' 'What Infirmary, sir?' says she. 'The Union Infirmary,' says he; 'it's the on'y place she's fit for except the Incurables in Dublin,' says he, 'an' I'm afraid there's no chance for there.' 'Oh, docther, don't mention it!' says poor Mrs. Byrne—she was telling me about it aftherwards. 'Is it the Union? I wouldn't name it,' she says, 'to a decent respectable woman like Mrs. Brady. She's a cousin by marriage o' me own,' she says; 'I wouldn't name it to her, I assure ye.' 'Just as you please,' says Docther Isaacs. 'It 'ud be the truest kindness you could do her all the same, for she'd get betther care and nourishment than you could give her.' Well, poor Mrs. Byrne kep' turnin' it over in her mind, but she raly couldn't bring herself to mention it, nor wouldn't, on'y she was druv to it at the end, the crature, with me bein' ill so long, an' the rent comin' so heavy on her an' all. So we settled it between the two of us wan day, an' she passed me her word to bring me Barney's letther—if e'er a wan comes—the very minute she gets it, an' if he comes himself she says she won't let on where I am, all at wanst, but she'll tell him gradual. Sometimes I do be very unaisy in me mind, Miss Mahony, I assure ye, wondherin' what he'll say when he hears. I'm afeared he'll be ready to kill me for bringin' such a disgrace on him."

"Sure, what could ye do?" said Kate, a little tartly, for naturally enough as "an inmate" of many years' standing, she did not quite like her new friend's insistence on this point. "Troth, it's aisy talkin', but it's not so aisy to starve. An' afther all, there's many a one that's worse off nor us here, I can tell ye, especially since the Sisthers come, God bless them, with their holy ways. How'd ye like to be beyant at the —— Union, where the nurses gobbles up all the nourishment that's ordhered for the poor misfortunate cratures that's in it, an leaves thim sthretched from mornin' till night without doin' a hand's turn for them. Aye, an' 'ud go near to kill them if they dar'd let on to the Docther. Sure, don't I know well how it was before the Sisthers was here—we have different times now I can tell ye. Why, that very statye o' St. Pathrick that ye were talkin' of a while ago, wasn't it them brought it? An' there's St. Joseph over in the ward fornenst this, an' St. Elizabeth an' the Holy Mother above. See that now. Isn't it a comfort to be lookin' at them holy things, and to see the blessed Sisthers come walkin' in in the mornin' wid a heavenly smile for every one, an' their holy eyes lookin' into every hole an' corner an' spyin' out what's wrong?"

"Aye, indeed," assented Mrs. Brady, a little faintly though, for however grateful she might be, and comfortable in the main, there was a bitterness in the thought of her "come down" that nothing could alleviate.

She and her neighbour were excellent friends all the same, and she soon shared Kate's enthusiasm for "the Sisthers," finding comfort moreover in the discovery that Sister Louise understood and sympathised with her feelings, and was willing to receive endless confidences on the subject of the "little boy," and to discuss the probability of his speedy advent with almost as much eagerness as herself.

But all too soon it became evident that unless Barney made great haste another than he would take Mrs. Brady "out of" the workhouse. Grim death was approaching with rapid strides, and one day the priest found her so weak that he told her he would come on the morrow to hear her confession and to give her the last Sacraments.

Not one word did the old woman utter in reply. She lay there with her eyes closed and her poor old face puckered up, unheeding all Kate Mahony's attempts at consolation. These, though well meant, were slightly inconsistent, as she now assured her friend that indeed it was well for her, and asked who wouldn't be glad to be out o' that; and in the next moment informed her that maybe when she was anointed she might find herself cured out an' out, as many a wan had before her, an' wasn't it well known that them that the priest laid his holy hands on, as likely as not took a good turn immaydiate?

Later on Sister Louise bent over Mrs. Brady with gentle reassuring words.

"God knows best, you know," she said, at the end of her little homily; "you will say 'His will be done,' won't you?"

"Sure Sisther, how can I?" whispered Mrs. Brady, opening her troubled eyes; her face almost awful to look on in its grey pallor. "How can I say 'His will be done' if I'm to die in the workhouse? An' me poor little boy comin' as fast as he can across the say to take me out of it, an' me breakin' my heart prayin' that I might live to see the day! An' when he comes back he'll find the parish has me buried. Ah, Sisther, how am I to resign meself at all? In the name o' God how am I to resign meself?"

The tears began to trickle down her face, and Sister Louise cried a little too for sympathy, and stroked Mrs. Brady's hand, and coaxed, and cajoled, and soothed and preached to the very best of her ability; and at the end left her patient quiet but apparently unconvinced.

It was with some trepidation that she approached her on the morrow. Mrs. Brady's attitude was so unusual that she felt anxious and alarmed. As a rule the Irish poor die calmly and peacefully, happy in their faith and resignation; but this poor woman stood on the brink of eternity with a heart full of bitterness, and a rebellious will.

Mrs. Brady's first words, however, reassured her.

"Sisther, I'm willin' now to say 'His will be done.'"

"Thank God for that," cried Sister Louise fervently.

"Aye. Well, wait till I tell ye. In the night when I was lying awake I took to lookin' at St. Pathrick beyant, wid the little lamp flickerin' an' flickerin' an' shinin' on his face, an' I thought o' Barney, an' that I'd niver see him agin, an' I burst out cryin'. 'Oh, St Pathrick!' says I, 'how'll I ever be able to make up my mind to it at all?' An' St. Pathrick looked back at me rale wicked. An' 'Oh,' says I again, 'God forgive me, but sure how can I help it?' An' there was St. Pathrick still wid the cross look on him p'intin' to the shamrock in his hand, as much as to say 'There is but the wan God in three divine Persons an' Him ye must obey.' So then I took to baitin' me breast an' sayin' 'The will o' God be done!' an' if ye'll believe me, Sisther, the next time I took heart to look at St. Pathrick there he was smilin' for all the world the moral o' poor Barney. So says I, 'afther that!' Well, Sisther, the will o' God be done! He knows best, Sisther alanna, doesn't He? But," with a weak sob, "my poor little boy's heart 'ill be broke out an' out when he finds I'm afther dyin' in the workhouse!"

"We must pray for him," said the Sister softly; "you must pray for him and offer up the sacrifice that God asks of you, for him. Try not to fret so much. Barney would not like you to fret. He would grieve terribly if he saw you like this."

"Heth he would," said Mrs. Brady, sobbing again.

"Of course he would. But if he heard you were brave and cheerful over it all, it would not be half so bad for him."

Mrs. Brady lay very quiet after this, and seemed to reflect.

When the priest came presently to administer the Sacraments of the dying to her, she roused herself and received them with much devotion, and presently beckoned Sister Louise to approach.

"Sisther, when Barney comes axin' for me, will ye give him me bades an' the little medal that's round me neck, an' tell him I left him me blessin'—will ye, dear?"

"Indeed I will."

"God bless ye! An' tell him," speaking with animation and in rather louder tones. "Tell him I didn't fret at all, an' died quite contint an' happy an'—an' thankful to be in this blessed place, where I got every comfort. Will ye tell him that, Sisther alanna?"

The Sister bowed her head: this time she could not speak.

* * * * *

It was nearly two months afterwards that Sister Louise was summoned to the parlour to see "Mr. Brady," who had recently arrived from America, and to whom his cousin, Mrs. Byrne, had broken the news of his mother's death.

Sister Louise smiled and sighed as she looked at this big, strapping, prosperous-looking young fellow, and remembered his mother's description of him. The black eyes and curly hair and rosy cheeks were all there, certainly, but otherwise the likeness to "St. Patrick" was not so very marked.

"Mr. Brady wants to hear all about his poor mother, Sister," said the Sister Superior. "This is Sister Louise, Mr. Brady, who attended your poor mother to the last."

Mr. Brady, who seemed a taciturn youth, rolled his black eyes towards the new comer and waited for her to proceed.

Very simply did Sister Louise tell her little story, dwelling on such of his mother's sayings, during her last illness, as she thought might interest and comfort him.

"There are her beads, and the little medal, which she always wore. She left them to you with her blessing."

Barney thrust out one huge brown hand and took the little packet, swallowing down what appeared to be a very large lump in his throat.

"She told me," pursued the Sister in rather tremulous tones, "to tell you that she did not fret at all at the last, and died content and happy. She did, indeed, and she told me to say that she was thankful to be here—"

But Barney interrupted her with a sudden incredulous gesture and a big sob, "Ah, whisht, Sisther!" he said.



THE FLITTING OF THE OLD FOLKS

"Maggie! Maggie! Glory be to goodness! where in the world has that child gone off with herself to? Maggie! Sure I've been roarin' an' bawlin' for ye this half-hour. Run up this minute to Mr. Brophy's—they're afther gettin' a letther from America, an' they can't get any one to read it for them, the cratur's. Hurry now, that's a good little girl; I'm goin' up myself along wid ye. Poor Mrs. Brophy'll be nearly out of her mind."

Mrs. Kinsella caught up her baby as she spoke, gave a hasty look round to make sure that Micky and Nanny were not crawling into the fire, enjoined Mary, her "second eldest" little girl, to "have an eye to them" during her absence, and, hustling her firstborn before her, hastily left the cabin.

"What is it at all?" asked Peggy Murphy, her next-door neighbour, thrusting her head over the half-door. "What in the world has happened? Is it goin' up to Brophys' ye are? I hope herself's not sick or anything."

"Not at all; but Dan looked in on his way from town, an' says he, 'I've a letther in my pocket that the postmisthress is afther givin' me, an' it's from America,' he says, 'but I'm sure I couldn't tell ye who wrote it,' says he. 'I wisht,' he says, 'ye'd send up wan o' yer little girls to read it to us,' says he, 'for neither herself nor me is much hand at makin' out writin'.' An' here I'm afther sarchin' high an' low for Maggie, an' where was she? Up in a tree, if ye plaze. Me heart's scalded with that child. She'll break her neck on me before she's done."

Maggie jerked her flaxen locks backwards with a slightly defiant air, and inquired of her parent if she was comin' on out o' that. Mrs. Kinsella in return curtly desired her to be off with herself, an' not be standin' there givin' her impidence, an' Mrs. Brophy maybe killin' herself wonderin' what could be in the letther at all.

Thus adjured, Maggie led the way up a steep and stony path, followed by her mother, Mrs. Murphy, and sundry other of the neighbours, all agog with excitement and curiosity.

Half-way up the rocky hillside they came upon the Brophys' abode, a one-storied cabin, with a cabbage garden, a potato plot, and a scanty patch of wheat climbing up the mountain at the rear.

Dan himself stood in the doorway, eagerly on the lookout for them; while a querulous voice from within warned them that "herself" had reached the limit of her patience.

Entering they descried her—a tiny old woman, bent almost double with age and rheumatism, leaning forward in her elbow-chair with the letter on her knee.

Maggie was hustled to the front and the packet placed in her hand. She turned it over and over, and finally broke the seal.

"It's from America," she said.

"Bedad, alanna, I knew that before," returned old Dan, who was bending over her, his weather-beaten face betraying the utmost mystification.

"Sure all of us knew that," murmured the bystanders.

"Well, give the child time to see what's in it," urged Mrs. Kinsella. "Father Taylor himself couldn't tell yez what's in a letther before he had it opened."

"Who's it from, Maggie asthore? Tell us that much," cried Mrs. Brophy with shrill eagerness.

Maggie drew the letter from the envelope and slowly unfolded it. An enclosure fell out. Several hands were outstretched to catch it, and Mrs. Kinsella succeeded.

"What in the name o' goodness is this?" she asked. "There's print on this. I hope to heaven it's not a summons, or a notice to quit, or anything that way."

"Not at all, not at all," cried Peggy Murphy, "that's an ordher for money. I knew the looks of it the minute I set eyes on it—the very same as wan that Mrs. O'More sent me from Dublin, the price of a pair o' chickens she sent for, afther she went up. Bedad, you're in luck, Dan. How much is it for, now, Maggie?"

"Ah! good gracious! don't be axin' the child them things. Sure how in the world could she tell, an' it afther bein' written in America?—God bless us! let her have a look at the letther anyhow."

"'My dear uncle and aunt,'" began Maggie, slowly spelling out.



Mrs. Brophy uttered a shrill scream, and clapped her hands together. "It's from Larry! Lord bless an' save us! it's Larry himself, him that I thought in his grave this fifteen year! God bless us, it's dramin' I am—it can't be true! Dan, d'ye hear that? Good gracious, what's the man thinkin' of, stan'in' there, lookin' about him, the same as if he never heard a thing at all. Dan" (with an impatient tug at his sleeve), "d'ye hear what I'm tellin' you? Larry isn't dead at all, an' he's afther writin' to us from America."

"Well, to be sure," cried Mrs. Kinsella. "Your sister's son, wasn't he, ma'am? La'rence Kearney. A fine young fellow he was, too. He went an' listed on yez, didn't he?"

"Aye, an' she was near breakin' her heart when he done it," chimed in Peggy Murphy; "sure, I remember it well."

Several other bystanders remembered it too, and expressed their sympathy by divers nods and groans; old Dan at last impatiently throwing out his hands for silence.

"Whisht! whisht! we can't be sure whether himself's in it at all yet. Let the poor little girl be gettin' on wid the letther, can't yez? Sure maybe it isn't Larry at all."

"Listen to the man, an' him the only nephew that ever we had," began "herself" shrilly; but Maggie's childish pipe, proceeding with the reading, drowned the rest of her remonstrance.

"'I hope you are quite well, as this leaves me at present. You will be very much astonished to get this letter, but when we meet, as I trust we soon shall, I hope to have the pleasure of explainin' to you all that has befell me since I left yous an' my happy home to join her Majesty's corpse!'"

"What's that?" cried Dan in alarm. "Corpse! Didn't I tell yez he was dead?"

"Sure how could he be dead," put in Mrs. Brophy, "when it was himself that wrote the letther? There isn't anythin' about a corpse in it, Maggie asthore, is there?"

"'C-o-r-p-s,' spelled out Maggie, "corpse; yes, there it is, as plain as print."

"Sure he manes 'rig'ment,' "shouted out some well-informed person from the background. "'Corpse'—that's what they do be callin' the army."

"Oh, that indeed?" resumed Dan, much relieved. "Go on, Maggie."

"'I am now, however, at the end of my rovin's,'" read the child, "'an' you'll be glad to hear that I am just afther gettin' married to a very nice young lady, with a good bit o' money of her own. I have also contrived to save a tol'rable sum, an' am now lookin' forward to a life of contentment an' prosperity in the company of my bride.'"

"That's Larry," exclaimed Mrs. Brophy with conviction. "That's himself—the very turn of him. He always had that fashion, ye know, of pickin' out them grand words. I could tell 'twas him the very minit she began, God bless him."

"'My fond memory, however, turns to them that in the days of my childhood was the same as a father an' a mother to me. I made sure that yous must both be under the daisy-quilt, an' me first thought was to send some money to the reverend gentleman, whoever he may be, that's parish priest in Clonkeen now, an' ax him to put up a rale handsome monument over your remains; but by the greatest good fortune I came across poor Bill Kinsella not long sence, an' he tould me yous were to the fore, an' not a sign o' dyin' on yous yet.'"

"Look at that now," cried Mrs. Kinsella, with shrill glee; "sure that's me own first cousin's son that went over beyant a couple of years ago. Well, now to think—"

"Ah, for goodness' sake, let's hear the end of the letther," cried Dan and his wife together, both violently excited.

"'Me an' me wife both feels,' went on Maggie, 'that we couldn't rest happy unless we made sure that yous ended your days in peace and comfort. This is a big house and a comfortable place, with room an' to spare for the two of yous, and you'll get the warmest of welcomes from nephew and niece. So I am sendin' you the price of your journey, with maybe a few dollars over, for fear you should come short, an' I hope you'll come out by the next boat, for there isn't much time to spare, an' you'll be gettin' too old for travellin'. I will say no more this time, my dear uncle and aunt, but cead mille failthe from your affectionate La'rence Kearney."

"Sure it isn't across the say he wants us to go," cried Dan in dismay; "is it to America?"

"God bless him!" exclaimed the wife, with fervour; "it's him that always had the good heart. To think of him plannin' an' contrivin' everythin' that way, even to the monyement."

"I wonder," said Dan regretfully, "what sort of a monyement at all he'd have put over us? 'Pon me word it 'ud have looked elegant beyant."

"Would ye have goold letthers on it, ma'am?" put in Peggy Murphy admiringly. "I seen wan at Kilpedder wan time that I went up when a cousin o' me own was buried, an' it was the loveliest ye ever seen. There was goold letthers, an' a crass on the top, an' at the four corners of it there was a kind of an ornamentation the same as a little skull—'pon me word, the natest thing ye could see! No bigger nor me fist, ye know; but all set out elegant with little weeshy-dawshy teeth, all as perfect as ye could imagine. It was some rale grand ould gentleman that was afther puttin' it up for his wife. I wondher if yez 'ud have had wan made anything that shape."

Dan looked pensive, and rubbed his hands slowly together, tantalised perhaps by the magnificence of the vision; but "herself" shook her head with a proud little smile.

"There's no knowin' what we'd have had," she observed. "Larry said he'd have axed Father Taylor to choose us the best, an' I b'lieve his reverence has very good taste."

"'Deed an' he has, ma'am. But will yez be goin' off wid yourselves to America out o' this?"

"Aye will we," responded Mrs. Brophy, with spirit. "Bedad, if Dan an' me is ever to see the world it's time we started."

"It's very far off," said poor old Dan nervously; "it's a terrible long way to be goin', alanna. If it wasn't for Larry expectin' us over beyant—"

"What would ye do, then?" interrupted his energetic little wife fiercely. "Stop at home, perishin' wid the cold an' hunger, an' the rain droppin' down on us while we're atin' our bit o' dinner; me that bad wid the rheumatiz I can hardly move hand or fut, an' yourself taken wid them wakenesses so that it's all ye can do to lift the potaties."

"Dear knows, it's himself that ought to leppin' mad wid j'y," cried one of the neighbours. "To get such a chance! Isn't it in the greatest good luck ye are, Dan, to be goin' off to that beautiful place, where ye'll be livin' in the heighth o' comfort an' need never do another hand's turn for yourselves? Troth, I wish it was me that had the offer of it."

Many murmurs of approval greeted this sally; every one being convinced that Dan was indeed in luck's way, while his wife wrathfully opined that he didn't know when he was well off.

Poor old Dan hastened to assure them that he was "over-j'yed."

"I suppose," he added, looking round deprecatingly, "they'll tell me down at the railway station the way we'll have to go; or maybe Father Taylor 'ud know. The say is miles an' miles away—I question if they'd give us a ticket for the say down beyant at Clonkeen."

"Sure, yez'll have to go to Dublin first," interposed the well-informed person who had before volunteered useful explanations.

"Dublin!" said Dan, sitting down on the edge of his favourite little "creepy" stool. "Well, well, to think o' that! I never thought to be goin' to Dublin, an' I suppose America is twicet as far."

"Aye, an' ten times as far," cried Peggy Murphy.

Dan looked appealingly round as though seeking contradiction, but could not summon up enough courage to speak. He sat still, rubbing his hands, and smiling a rather vacant smile; and by-and-by, having exhausted their queries and conjectures, the visitors left the cabin, and the old couple were alone.

They stared at each other for a moment or two in silence, Mary Brophy fingering the letter which she could not read.

"That's grand news?" she remarked presently, with a querulous interrogative note in her voice.

"Grand entirely," repeated her husband submissively, rubbing the patched knees of his corduroy trousers for a change.

"We'll have to be gettin' ready to be off soon, I suppose?" pursued Mary, still in a tone of vexed inquiry.

"Aye," said Dan, continuing to rub his knees.

"Ye ought to be out o' yer wits wid delight," asserted Mrs. Brophy angrily.

"So I am," said Dan, with a ghastly attempt at cheerfulness.

"Ah, go 'long out o' that!" cried Mary. "Ye have me moithered, sittin' there starin' the two eyes out o' yer head. Go out an' give the hens a bit to ate."

"Sure we haven't had our own suppers yet," returned Dan, slowly rising; "time enough to give the cratur's what's left."

"Listen to the man! 'Pon me word, ye'd never desarve a bit o' good look, Dan Brophy, ye've that little sense. What call have we to go pinchin' an' scrapin' now, will ye tell me? Us that's goin' to spend the rest of our days in peace an' comfort. Sure, Larry'll let us want for nothin' while we live."

"Aye, indeed," returned her husband; "I was forgettin' that."

He went out obediently, and presently his voice was heard dolorously "chuck-chucking" to the hens. When he re-entered he sat down on the stool again, with the same puzzled air which had formerly irritated his wife.

"I wonder," he said, "how in the world we'll be managin'. Will I go down to the station beyant, an' give them that money ordher, an' tell them Larry bid them give us tickets to America for it, or will I have to take it to the post-office first? Mrs. Murphy said it was a post-office ordher, but sure they wouldn't be givin' us tickets for America at the post-office."

"Ah, what a gom ye are!" said Mary. It was her favourite and wholly untranslatable term of opprobrium.

"Afther that," as Dan invariably said, "there was no use in talkin' to Mary." He suspected that on this occasion she was feeling a little puzzled herself, but wisely resolved to postpone the discussion till she should be in a better humour.

Next morning, when the old man rose and went out of the house, as usual, to fetch a pailful of water from the stream which ran at the foot of the hill, he cast lingering glances about him. It would be a queer thing, he thought, to look out in the morning on any other view than this familiar one, which had greeted his waking eyes in his far away childhood, and on which he had expected to look his last only when the day came whereon he should close them for ever. On the other side of the rugged brown shoulder of that hill was the little chapel, under the shadow of which he had hoped one day to be laid to rest. Pausing, pail in hand, he began to wonder to himself where he would have had the monument which, if he and Mary had already departed, was, by Larry's request, to have surmounted their remains. There was an empty space to the right of the gate—it would have looked well there—real handsome, Dan opined. With his mind full of this thought he returned to Mary, and immediately imparted it to her.

"Alanna, we wouldn't have known ourselves, we'd have been so grand," he added. "Goold letthers, no less. I don't know that I'd altogether fancy them little skulls, though. They would have been altogether too mournful. I'd sooner have R.I.P. at all the corners—wouldn't you?"

"Maybe I would an' maybe I wouldn't," said Mary. "We needn't be botherin' our heads about it. Larry'll be apt to be puttin' up a tombstone over us when we do go."

"Sure what good will that do us over there where nobody knows us?" murmured Dan discontentedly. "If it was here where all the neighbours 'ud be lookin' at it, it 'ud be somethin'-like. But what signifies what kind of an ould gully-hole they throw us into over beyant—there'll be nobody to pass a remark about us, or to put up a prayer for us afther we're gone, only Larry and his wife; an' I question if she's the lady to be throublin' her head over the like of us."

Mrs. Brophy was quite taken aback at this harangue, but soon recovered herself sufficiently to rate Dan as soundly as she considered he deserved; then, with many muttered comments on his ingratitude, she proceeded to crawl over to the hearth to prepare breakfast.

"Woman alive!" ejaculated Dan presently, "sure it's not tay ye're wettin' this mornin', an' only a sign of it left in the bag. Ye'll be callin' out for yer cup on Sunday, an' there'll not be a grain left for ye."

"Good gracious, won't the two of us be out of it before Sunday?" returned Mary tartly. "Upon me word, a body 'ud lose patience wid ye altogether. I'm sick an' tired tellin' ye that we've no call to be savin' up the way we used to be doin'. Sit down there, an' don't saucer yer tay, but drink it like a Christian out o' the cup. An' for goodness' sake, Dan, don't be blowin' it that way. I declare I'll be ashamed of me life if that's the way ye're goin' to go on forenenst Mrs. Larry."

"Would ye have me scald the throat out o' meself?" retorted Dan indignantly. "I wish to goodness that letther o' Larry's was at the bottom of the say. Ye're that contrairy sence, I dunno whatever to do wid ye. Bedad, if that's the way wid ye I'll not stir a fut out o' this. Mind that!"

Mrs. Brophy, though much incensed, nevertheless deemed it prudent to make no reply; and presently Dan, pushing back his stool, got up and went out. Mary sat cogitating for some minutes alone; her reflections were not altogether of the pleasantest order, and she was relieved when, by-and-by, Mrs. Kinsella's voice hailed her from the doorway.

"How's yourself this morning?" inquired the visitor pleasantly. "Did you think it was dramin' ye were when ye woke up? I suppose the two o' yez'll soon be out o' this now. I was thinkin'"—leaning her arms affably on the half-door—"any ould things, ye know, that wouldn't be worth yer while to bring along wid yous 'ud come in very handy for me down below. Of course I wouldn't name it if ye were likely to be takin' everythin' wid ye; but goin' all that way, an' lavin' nobody afther ye—it's a terrible long fam'ly I have altogether, ma'am—I declare I have the work of the world wid them. Terence—nothin' 'ud serve him but to go makin' a drum out o' the on'y pot we have, an' he's afther knocking a great big hole in it. So if ye weren't goin' to take your big ould pot away wid ye, ma'am, I thought I'd just mention it."

Mrs. Brophy's withered little face flushed.

"It's yerself that 'ud be welcome, I'm sure," she replied stiffly, "but that same pot Dan an' me bought when we got married, an' I don't think I could have the heart to part wid it."

"Ah, that indeed, ma'am? Well, of course, when ye have a fancy for it that way, it's best for ye to take it wid ye. But I question if Mrs. Larry 'ud like the looks of it comin' into her grand kitchen. Sure Bill tould me, that time he came back from America, there wasn't such a thing as a pot to be seen over there at all. But plaze yerself, ma'am, of coorse."

Mrs. Brophy looked startled and perturbed.

"Not such a thing as a pot in it," she repeated. "God bless us! it must be a quare place. Well, Mrs. Kinsella, ma'am, if I do lave the pot behind I'll make sure that yourself has it."

"Thank ye, ma'am," responded Mrs. Kinsella, with alacrity. "Any ould thing at all that ye wouldn't be wantin' 'ud come in handy for me. Ye wouldn't be takin' that ould chair, now, or the dresser; that 'ud be altogether too big an' too heavy to put in a boat, but I'd be thankful for it at my place."

Mary looked round at her little household gods with a sudden pang; then she glanced rather sharply back at Mrs. Kinsella.

"There's time enough to be thinkin' o' them things," she observed. "Himself an' me hasn't made up our minds at all when we're goin', or what we'll be doin' wid our bits o' things."

"Well, I must be off wid meself anyhow," returned the visitor, easily changing the subject. "Ye'll be havin' his reverence in wid yez some time this mornin'. I'm afther meetin' him goin' up the road to poor Pat Daly's, an' when I told him the news he near broke his heart laughin' at the notion of the two o' yez goin' off travellin' at this time o' day. 'But I'm sorry, too,' he says, 'I'm very sorry,' he says. 'Upon my word,' says he, 'the place won't know itself without poor Dan an' Mary. An' so they're goin' to live over there,' says he, 'or rather to die over there,' says he, 'an' there'll be some strange priest lookin' afther them at the last,' he says. 'Well, well, I always thought it 'ud be me that 'ud have the buryin' o' Dan an' Mary.'—An' off wid him then up the hill to Dalys', but he'll be apt to be lookin' in on his way back."

"He will, to be sure," agreed Mary, in rather doleful tones.

When Mrs. Kinsella had departed she sat cowering over the fire without heeding her unfinished cup of tea. The priest's words just quoted had touched her in a vulnerable point. True for his reverence. It wasn't living much longer they'd be over there, and when they came to die it would be a lonesome sort of thing to have a strange priest coming to see them instead of their own Father Taylor, who had been their friend, guide, and adviser for more than forty years! Mrs. Brophy's heart misgave her; his reverence would be apt to think bad of their going off that way, and him so good to them. Then Mrs. Kinsella's remarks rankled in her memory—"an ould pot" that Mrs. Larry would despise in her elegant kitchen; the cool scrutiny with which she had surveyed all poor Mary's treasured belongings was hard to be borne. The dresser; like enough there would not be room for the dresser in the boat—Mary had no notion as to the size of the vessel that was to convey her and her belongings to America—and what about the bed then? The bed, a valuable heirloom which had stood in its own particular corner of the cabin for nearly a century, which had been Mary's mother's bed, the pride and joy of Mary's heart, and the envy of the neighbours. What in the world was to be done with this priceless treasure? Good-natured as she was she felt that she could not bring herself to allow it to become the property of Mrs. Kinsella or any of the neighbours. Who would respect it as she did? At the bare thought of heedless "gossoons" or "slips of girls" tumbling in and out of the receptacle which she herself had always approached so reverently, Mary shivered.

"Cock them up, indeed!" she murmured wrathfully.

Then an idea struck her, an idea which became a fixed resolution when presently Father Taylor's kindly face nodded at her over the half-door. She would offer his reverence the bed; it would be honoured by such a rise in the world as a transfer to the priest's house; and at the same time Mary felt that this precious legacy would in some measure repay her good pastor for his long and affectionate care. She had hardly patience to listen to Father Taylor's greeting, or to answer his good-natured rallying queries anent their unexpected good fortune. When she did speak it was rather in a tone of lamentation than of rejoicing:—

"Aye, indeed, yer reverence, it's what we nayther of us looked for, an' it's a terrible change altogether. I'm wondering what in the world I'll do wid my bits o' things—my little sticks o' furniture, ye know, sir. Biddy Kinsella was up here a little while ago lookin' out for me pot—it's an elegant pot, an' I'm loth to part with it—but she says Bill tould her there's no such thing as a pot to be seen out there. So I'll have to lave it with her. But the bed, Father Taylor, it's the bed that's throublin' me the most. It's a beautiful bed, your reverence."

The priest glanced towards that valuable article of furniture, and responded heartily and admiringly:—

"It is, indeed, a wonderful bed."

"Sure there isn't its like in the place," resumed Mary. "It was me mother's bed, so it was—she looked very well when she was laid out on it," she added thoughtfully. "Very well, indeed, she looked! I always thought that Dan an' meself 'ud be waked in that bed, too. Well, well, the Lord knows best, doesn't he, yer reverence? But I'd think very bad of lettin' that bed out o' this to go anywhere on'y to yer reverence's house."

"Bless me!" cried Father Taylor, unable to restrain a surprised laugh; but he quickly composed his features.

"Aye, indeed, yer reverence, I'd be proud if ye'd let me make ye a present of it," said poor old Mary, trying to straighten her little bent back, and peering at him with anxious eyes. "Sure it's altogether too proud Dan an' meself 'ud be, an' ye wouldn't believe the beautiful nights' rests we do be gettin' out o' that bed."

"I'm quite sure you do," responded the priest warmly; "but upon my word, Mary, do you know I'm afraid the Bishop mightn't like it."

Mrs. Brophy was appalled at the magnitude of the idea. Father Taylor continued in a very solemn voice, but with a twinkle in his eye:—

"You see, Mary, we poor priests are not allowed luxuries, and if his lordship were to arrive unexpectedly and walk into my room and see that grand bed in the corner he might think it very queer."

"Would he now?" said Mary, in awestruck tones.

"You wouldn't like to get me into trouble, Mary, I'm sure," pursued Father Taylor. "The Bishop might think I was getting beyond myself altogether."

Mrs. Brophy heaved a deep sigh; she was depressed, but magnanimous. It would ill become her, she observed, to be gettin' his reverence into trouble, and who'd think his lordship was that wicked? Holy man! She would say no more; and Father Taylor was devoutly thankful for her forbearance. He would have done anything rather than hurt her feelings, but the mere sight of that ancient, venerable, and much-begrimed four-poster made him shudder; while he scarcely ventured to contemplate the attitude likely to be assumed by his housekeeper—of whom he stood in some little awe—if the question were mooted of adding this piece of furniture to her well-polished and carefully-dusted stock.

Wishing to change the subject, he remarked that Mary's beautiful cup of tea had been scarcely tasted. "Why, I thought every drop was precious," he added, laughing; "but I suppose you will not be counting the grains now as you used to do."

"I don't seem to fancy it this mornin' the way I used to do sometimes," responded Mrs. Brophy plaintively.

"Ah," said the priest, half-sadly, "you will have plenty of everything over there, Mary, but I doubt if you will relish anything as much as what you and Dan used to buy out of the price of your chickens. Nothing is so sweet as what we earn for ourselves, woman dear. I fancy the potatoes grown in your little bit of ground, and boiled in your own black pot, taste sweeter, somehow, than all the fine dinners that Mrs. Larry will be giving you."

"Thrue for ye, yer reverence," put in Dan, suddenly appearing in the doorway. "'Pon me word, I wish that ould letther an' all that was in it had stopped where it was, before it came upsettin' us that way. I'd sooner stop where I am, so I would—I would so—there now ye have it!" turning defiantly to his wife. "Sure it'll be the death of the two of us lavin' the ould place, an' thravellin' off across the say among strangers. An' what good will it do us, as I do be sayin' to herself here, for Larry to be puttin' up a monyement for us over beyant there, where there's ne'er a one at all that knows us?"

"To be sure, I was forgetting the monument," said Father Taylor, laughing again. "I was to have the choosing of it, too, wasn't I? Let me look at the letter again, Mary. Yes, here it is. 'The reverend gentleman, whoever he is, that's parish priest in Clonkeen now'—It's the very same reverend gentleman that used to give Master Larry many a good box on the ear long ago when he was a little rascally lad; but I suppose he thought I was dead and buried by this time—he wants to have us all underground. Well, well, it's a pity I'm not to have the choosing of that monument—I'd have picked out the finest that money could buy."

He intended this as a joke, and Dan and Mary uttered a somewhat melancholy, but complimentary laugh; then they looked at each other wistfully, as though regretting that they were not in a position to enable their pastor to gratify his artistic tastes.

Dan presently confided his troubles and difficulties anent the changing of the order, and was desired by the priest to call in the afternoon, when he would himself go with him to the post-office. Then Father Taylor withdrew, feeling a little sad at the thought of losing two such old parishioners, and a little impatient with the over-affectionate nephew, who had so late in the day insisted on their uprootal.

"How much more sensible it would have been," he said to himself, "how much more truly kind, if Larry, instead of transplanting the poor old couple in their old age, had sent them a small sum of money every month to enable them to end their days in comfort at home." But there was apparently nothing for it now but to take what steps he could to help them over the difficulties of their flitting.

About five o'clock Dan duly made his appearance, wearing a much more jubilant aspect than when his pastor had taken leave of him. With a comical and somewhat sheepish grin he produced the "ordher" in a crumpled condition from his tattered pocket, and handed it over to the priest, remarking, as he did so, that "it was a quare thing to think what a power o' money did be in a little or'nary thing like that."

"Yes, indeed," said Father Taylor, with a sigh, "that little bit of paper will carry you and Mary all the way over the sea, and across a State as big as Ireland."

"Would it now?" inquired Dan, eyeing it curiously. "Well now, to tell you the truth, yer reverence, herself an' me has been havin' a bit of a chat. She thinks bad, the cratur', of lavin' the bed, an' the ould pot, an' all our little sticks o' things behind, ye know, sir, an' I do be thinkin' I'd never get my health at all out of ould Ireland; an' any way the two of us is too ould to be thravellin' off that way. An' so herself says to me—she says:—'Dan,' says she, 'I think the best way would be for ye to step down to his reverence's,' says she, 'an' give him the ordher,' she says, 'an' ax him,' says she, 'if he'll just write a line to poor Larry, an' let him know that we haven't the heart nor the strength to be lavin' our own little place. An' bid him,' says she, "ax Larry if it 'ud be all the same to him if his reverence was to keep the money for us agin we want it.'"

"To be sure, to be sure," cried Father Taylor, delighted. "You show your good sense, Dan, and so does Mary. I'll just go with you now, and change the order; and I'll let Larry know that I'll keep the money for you, and pay it out little by little as long as it lasts."

"Not at all, not at all," interrupted Dan, hastily and indignantly. "Bedad, it isn't that we want yer reverence to do for us. Sure the raison I'm afther givin' ye the ordher is for you to keep it safe, the way we'll have it for the monyement."



"THE SPIDER AND THE GOUT"

Old Pat Clancy lived in a small cabin immediately beneath the Rock of Donoughmor, and looked upon the ruined castle on the top as his especial property, the legends concerning them being treasured by him as jealously as though they were traditions of his own ancestors. A proud man was Pat when piloting the occasional strangers who wished to inspect the keep up the steep and slippery path which led to the ancient portcullis, and conducting them thence to the banqueting-hall, sparing the luckless pilgrim, in fact, no corner of the edifice or its surroundings, and pausing only on the mossy slope to the rear, where, his charge having duly admired "the view over three counties," he would proudly point out the precise spots where Fin-ma-coul had "wrastled" with and overthrown another "monsthrous joynt" of name unknown, the traces of the encounter being yet visible in the short turf.

"Ne'er a blade o' grass at all 'ud grow on them," Pat would cry, pointing triumphantly to the irregular hollows in the soil supposed to be the traces of the giant's mighty feet. These, by the way, occasionally varied oddly in extent; during the summertime, when most visitors were to be expected, being noticeably large, and much deeper than at other seasons.

Poor Pat's devotion to his beloved ruins was the cause of his undoing. One spring morning, when a late frost had made the grass unusually slippery, just as he was expounding to an interested audience how the Danes used to shoot "arrers through them little slits of windies in the wall beyant," his foot slipped, and after rolling for a little distance down the steep incline, he went over the precipitous side of the crag, and fell some twenty feet on to the stones below. Many bones were broken, and as surgical aid was difficult to obtain, and but of poor quality when at last secured, most of them were badly set, and the poor old fellow remained to the end of his days a cripple. How he and his wife and their last remaining child, a son born to them when Pat was already old, managed thenceforth to eke out a living would have been a marvel to their neighbours, if similar problems of existence had not been so common in the countryside. There was the pig, of course, and a few chickens, and "herself" did a day's work now and then in the fields, and escorted the visitors over the ruins, well primed and prompted by Patrick as to the "laygends and tragedies" (traditions) of those sacred precincts; and little Mike minded the sheep, and frightened crows and picked turnips for their landlord, "ould Pether Rorke beyant at Monavoe," but "Goodness knows," as the neighbours would say, shaking their heads at each other, "it was not much of a livin' the poor child 'ud make out of him—the ould villain! Didn't he let his own flesh and blood go cold and hungry—'twasn't to be expected he'd do more nor he could help for a stranger. Aye indeed, he was a great ould villain! To think of him with lashin's and lavin's of everything an' money untold laid by, an' his only son's widdy livin' down there with a half-witted lodger in a little black hole of a place that was not fit for a pig, let alone a Christian, an' the beautiful little cratur', his grandchild, Roseen, runnin' about barefut, with her dotey little hands an' feet black an' blue wid the cowld—sure what sort of a heart had the man at all?"

Old Pat was sitting alone one summer's afternoon, "herself" having gone up to Donoughmor with some Quality, and Mike not having yet returned from work, when little Roseen Rorke poked her sunny face in at the door.

"Is that yourself?" said Pat pleasantly. He was fond of the child, as was every one in the neighbourhood, and being a fellow-sufferer from the hard-heartedness of her grandfather, who was, as has been said, his landlord, was perhaps the most violent of her champions.

Roseen's blue eyes, peering through her tangled sheaf of golden-brown curls, took a hasty and discontented survey of the small kitchen.

"Isn't Mike here?" she inquired.

"He's not, asthore, an' won't be home this hour most likely; but come in out o' the scorching sun, an' sit down on the little creepy stool. Herself will be in in a few minutes, an' maybe she'll give ye a bit o' griddle cake."

Roseen unfastened the half-door and came in, her little bare brown feet making no sound on the mud floor. She was a pretty child for all her sunburnt face and scanty unkempt attire. Poor Widow Rorke has long ceased to take pride in the fact that her husband had been the son of the richest farmer in all the countryside, and did not care to keep up appearances, all her energies being devoted to the struggle for daily bread; nevertheless, the short red flannel frock was as becoming to Roseen as any more elegant garment could have been, and when she approached the hearth and sat down on the three-legged stool by Pat's side, he breathed a blessing on her pretty face that was as admiring as it was fervent.

Crossing one shapely sunburnt leg over the other, and gazing pensively at the smouldering turf sods, she heaved a deep sigh.

"They're afther goin' out an' lavin' me," she lamented.

"Did they, asthore? Sure they had a right to have taken ye along wid them. Where are they gone to at all, alanna?"

"Me mother's after goin' to the town to buy a bit o' bread, an' Judy's streeled off with herself, goodness knows where, wid her ould pipe in her pocket. Dear knows when she'll be back; an' she bid me stop at home an' mind the fire, but I come away out o' that as soon as her back was turned."

The bright eyes glanced defiantly at the old man and then suddenly clouded over; the corners of the little mouth began to droop, and the small bare shoulders to heave.

"They'd no call to go lavin' me all by meself."

"Troth they hadn't, mavourneen," agreed Pat, clackling his tongue sympathetically. "It was too hard on ye, altogether, but sure you won't cry now, there's a good little girl; crying never done any one a ha'porth o' good yit. Look at me here wid all my ould bones broke; I might cry the two eyes out o' my head an' never a wan at all ud' get mended for me."

Roseen sat up blinking. "Did it hurt ye much, Misther Clancy, when your bones was broke on ye?"

"Is it hurt, bedad! Ye'd hear me bawlin' up at the crass roads. Sure I thought it was killed I was! My ancistor couldn't have shouted louder when he had the Earl Strongbow's spear stuck in him. Will I tell ye about that, alanna, to pass the time till herself comes in?"

Roseen shook her head discontentedly.

"I know that story," she said. "I wisht ye'd tell me about the Spider an' the Gout though, Misther Clancy. Ah do, an' I'll sit here listenin' as quiet as a mouse."

Pat rubbed his unshaven chin with the lean fingers of his one serviceable hand, the bristles of his week-old beard making a rasping sound the while, and glanced down sideways at the eager little petitioner.

"Is it the Spider an' the Gout?" he said, knitting his brows with affected reluctance. "Sure I am sick an' tired tellin' ye that. No, but I'll tell ye 'The little man and the little woman that lived in the vinegar bottle.' ... Wanst upon a time, there was a weeshy-dawshy little man—'"

"Ah no, Misther Clancy, I don't care for that," interrupted Roseen, jumping up and clapping her hands to her ears. "It's a horrible ould story. They'd have been drownded," she added seriously.

Pat chuckled. "Well, sit down, an' don't offer to say a word unless you hear me goin' out. Sure maybe I disremember it altogether."

Roseen sat down obediently and fixed her eyes on the old man's face.



"Wanst upon a time," began Dan, with a twinkle in his eye, "the pigs were swine." Roseen gave an impatient wriggle. "Well, well, it's too bad to be tormentin' ye that way. I'll begin right now.—Well, very well then. There was wan time the Spider an' the Gout was thravellin' together, goin' to seek their fortun's. Well, they come to the crass roads. 'Lookit here,' says the Spider, 'it's time for you an' me to be partin' company,' says he; 'I'm goin' up along here to the right,' says he, 'to that great big house on the hill. A very rich man lives there,' says he, 'an' I think the quarthers 'ull suit me. You can go down that little boreen to the left,' he says; 'there's a little cabin there that belongs to some poor fellow or other. The door is cracked,' says the Spider, 'and the windy is broke. Ye can slip in aisy,' he says, 'an' creep into the poor fellow's toe before he knows where he is.'—'Is that so?' says the Gout. 'Oh, that indeed!' says he; 'it'll suit me very well,' says he, 'if that's the way it is. An' I'll tell you what we'll do,' says the Gout, 'you an' me'll meet here this time to-morrow night an' tell each other how we're gettin' on,' says he."