heard or seen no more! When the final pang is over, and she lies stretched out in the stillness of death-fair picture of departed beauty, never again to turn the eye of tenderness upon a brother or a parent-never to wipe away with her own feeble hand the hopeless tears from her parents' cheeks; never again to affect the mirth of innocence in the languor of disease, that she might calm the agony of those who feared to lose her for ever; oh, never again to soothe them with the strong consolations which, rich in faith, she could, and did give, of meetings beyond the grave, where there is neither sorrow nor separation ! never again to give them the full assurance that she realized for herself those promises of the Gospel that are yea and amen in Christ Jesus, nor by the serene influence of her word and example allure to brighter worlds and lead the way.' When I contemplate her still warm with the traces of departed life, silent to the wild cry of her mother's grief, calling upon her name-when that brother, perhaps an only one, raises convulsively to his lips the tender hand that was so dear to him-and sees it fall down in utter lifeless

ness by her side-when I fancy the father's approach to make his morning inquiry after her, who in the emphasis of affection was always called 'his'-when I see him bring the black ribbon, to have the long grey locks which descended his shoulders tied as usual by her hands, and when he hears that his flower is cut down, collecting all the Christian within him, and kneeling before the eternal throne, praying to be supported-when I see him struggle with his grief, his lip quiver, his voice become indistinct, and his whole frame shake, until at length remembering that she was his only and his dearest, the tide of grief bursts forth with a violence which nothing can repress-oh, when I bring this before me, do I not know that the sword of affliction pierces his soul? Then when I measure the short period that intervened between May and August, I can fancy the mother's disease to be that of a broken heart she would not be comforted;' her complaint was that of Rachel-she gave way to lamentation and weeping, because her child was NOT."

After having brooded over such melancholy

B

images for some time, I turned towards home, as it was now near twilight-but in order to prolong the pleasure of the walk, and diversify the landscape, I took a more circuitous path on my return. I had not, however, advanced far, until I perceived him again a little before me, for he walked very slow; he was in conversation with a peasant, but on noticing my approach he left him and walked on more quickly. The peasant proved to be one of my own labourers-a very good humoured man, named Tom Garrett, whom I noticed once or twice for the neat and clean manner in which he kept himself clothed.

"A fine night, your honour," said Tom, touching his hat-"A fine night, Tom, your'e on your way home, I suppose ?"—"Jist on my way, your honour, afther a hard day's work, Sir”—“Well, Tom, you work for your bread and earn it honestly-and it's always the sweetest bread that's most honestly earned." "Why it is, Sir, shure enuff-still, Sir, if we could arn a small taste more iv bread, wud not altogether so much work, your honourtwud be no dissarvice to poor hard-workin' men like uz, that has nothing to depind upon

but the labour iv our hands-and then the wife and childer, Sir,"-"Why indeed if you could, Tom, I'm shure I'd have no objection in the world"-"Thank you, Sir," said he,-"I'm very sartain you would not; bud did you meet a tall gentleman in black, at Miss Optin's grave in the church-yard, Sir ?"-"Yes, Tom, who is he?" "Why he jist ax'd me the same question about yourself, Sir-an I tould 'im that you war the gintleman who bought square Grames's estate-an' that was lately come to live in the castle.'

"But who is he, Tom? I take him to be a Roman Catholic Priest""Indeed, an' he is, Sir, sure enuff-that same thing-an a sore heart does it leave 'im that he is a priest." "Why, I thought Roman Catholics generally feel an ambition to become members of the priesthood ?" "An why shuddent they, your honour, when we consider the great power they have, and the larnin' they get; sure there's not a priest in Irelan' this minnit but und herstands the seven languages, and as Paddy Dimnick, that sarves mass every Sunday, tould me last week at a station in Corra-na-moddagh—' there's Father Driscoll,' said he- him, Sir, the old square,

that was afore your time christened Dry-skull -can spake Hebrew as fast as English.'". "Well, Tom, I wont dispute Father Driscoll's or Dryskull's, (or whatever else you choose to call him) capacity to speak Hebrew; but setting his Hebrew knowledge aside, in plain English what do you know of the gentleman you were just speaking to?" "In troth, Sir, exceptin' bits and scraps, myself never hard the story out and out-but some way or other, they say he's not right in his head ever since Miss Optin died, for that made strange changes in him."

"Why, is he looked upon as deranged?" I inquired: "Bedad that's more nor I can say ether, Sir-bud their's sartinly some talk about it, although others sez that it was larnin' that crack'd him. I declare it, my own opinion is, that barrin' his great larnin,' there's not a hap'orth the matter with 'im, your honour". "But your'e after observing just now, Tom, that he regrets entering the Church ?" "So Paddy Dimnick sez, Sir; and that it was agin his own consint he ever was made a priest iv, bud he was always a mild quiet crather an when his poor mother was on her