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INTRODUCTION.

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The " Sketches" chiefly refer to one locality—the parish of Bannow, on the sea-coast of the County of Wexford—my native place, where the earlier years of my life were passed. The world has little interest in the personal feelings of a writer; but my readers will, I hope, permit me to say, that my first impressions of Ireland were derived from the very favourable circumstances under which I was placed ; for, in this neighbourhood, there was, comparatively, none of the poverty, and consequent wretchedness, to be encountered, unhap­pily, elsewhere. I have so frequently dwelt upon its almost exclusive pri­vileges and peculiar features, in these " Sketches," as to render it unnecessary for me to preface them further than by stating they are, in general, accurate, as regards the persons and the scenery; although, no doubt, the happy asso­ciations, connected with them, have made both appear brighter, in my eyes, than they may seem to others. It is certain, however, that this district of the County of Wexford is superior to any other part of the south of Ireland. Its landlord is not an absentee; he is surrounded by an attached and a prosperous tenantry; the land is naturally rich, and facilities for improving it are many.

The Baronies of Bargy and Forth, in the former of which Bannow is situated, are especially fortunate in possessing, to a very remarkable extent, all the moral, social, and natural advantages, which are to be found, although more limited, throughout the Comity. The inhabitants are, chiefly, descendants of the Anglo-Norman settlers, who, in the reign of the second Henry, invaded and conquered—or, rather, subdued—Ireland; and, until very recently, they retained so much of their ancient customs and manners, as actually to speak a language unknown in other districts of the Kingdom.

The ruins of castles are so numerous; that, over a surface of about 40,000 acres, there stand the remains of fifty-nine; and the sites of many more can still be pointed out. The people are, to this day, " a peculiar people," and retain much of their English character. This is apparent, not alone in the

Introduction vi.

external aspect of the county—in the skilfully farmed fields, the comparatively comfortable cottages, the barns attached to every farmyard, the well-trimmed hedgerows, stocked with other vegetables than potatoes; the peasantry are better clad than we have seen them elsewhere, and have an air of sturdy inde­pendence, which they really feel, and to which they are justly entitled, for it is achieved by their own honest industry.

In these " Sketches" I have aimed at a higher object than mere amuse­ment,—desiring so to picture the Irish character, as to make it more justly appreciated, more rightly estimated, and more respected, in England; at the same time, I have studied—but I trust in a kindly and affectionate spirit--so to notice the errors and faults that prevail most among my countrymen and countrywomen, as to be of some use in inducing a removal of them. There are none powerless to effect good—except those who persuade them­selves that attempts to produce it are hopeless. It has been my steady purpose, and zealous wish, to do justice to the many estimable qualities of tie :Irish peasantry, of whom it has been truly said, "their virtues are their own; but their vices have been forced upon them."

With these " Sketches" I was first introduced to the Public; I have since produced other works, but none into which my heart so completely entered. They gave me, I presume to say, a place in public favour;—it has been my •earnest and continued study to retain it.

Within a few years, the property upon which I lived has passed into other hands—from those, so near and so dear to me, who, in my time, possessed it— I am happy to say, however, into good hands ; for the excellent and accomplished gentleman to whom I have inscribed these " Sketches," while he is equally filling, is infinitely more powerful, to advance the moral and social welfare of the people committed to his charge.

LILLY O'BRIEN.

the sweet Lilly of Bannow!—I shall never forget the morning I first saw her. Her aunt—who does not know her aunt, Mrs. Cassidy?—her aunt is positively the most delightful person in the whole parish. She is now a very old woman, but so "knowing" that she settles all debateable points that arise among good and bad housewives, from Mrs. Connor of the Hill, down to " Polly the Cadger," as to the proper mode of making mead, potato-cakes, and stirabout; and always decides who are the best spinners and knitters in the county; nay, her opinion, given after long deliberation, established the supe­riority of the barrel, over the hand, churn. There is, however, one disputed matter in the neighbourhood, even to this day. Mrs. Cassidy (it is very extraordinary, but who is without some weakness ?)—Mrs. Cassidy will have it that a Quern—an obsolete hand-mill of stone, still patronised by " the ancient Irish "—grinds wheat better than a mill, and produces finer flour; she, there­fore, abuses all mills, both of wind and water, and persists in grinding her own corn, as well as in making her own bread. By-the-bye, this very Quern was in great danger some time ago, when an antiquary, who had hunted hill

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and dale, seeking for Danish or Roman relics (I forget which, but it is of little consequence), pounced upon it, declared it was a stone bowl of great antiquity, and that Mrs. Cassidy's maiden name, " Maura O'Brien," carved on it in Irish characters, proved it to have been used, either by Dane or Roman, in some religious ceremony, or Bacchanalian rite, I cannot take it on myself to say which:—but this I know, that the old gentleman was obstinate; had been accustomed to give large sums for ugly things of every description, and thought that Mrs. Cassidy could be induced to yield up her favourite for three guineas. He never was more mistaken in his life; nothing could have tempted Mrs. Cassidy to part with her dear Quern; so he left the neighbour­hood, almost heart-broken with disappointment.

I respect the Quern myself, for it was the means of introducing me to the sweet Lilly. There, that little path, bordered with oxlips, primroses, and unobtrusive violets,—

" Whose deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the
breath of heaven, seem colour'd by its skies "—

that path leads to Mrs. Cassidy's dwelling. You cannot see the cottage, it is perfectly hidden—absolutely wooded in; but it is a rare specimen of neatness. The farm-yard is stocked with ricks of corn, hay, and furze; with a puddle-like pond for ducks and geese, and a sty for a little grunting animal, who thinks it a very unjust sentence that consigns a free-born Irish pig to such confinement. How beautiful is the hawthorn, hedge!—one sheet of snowy blossom—and such a row of bee-hives!—while the white walls of the cottage are gemmed over with the delicate green, half-budded, leaves of the noble rose-tree, that mounts even to the chimney-top; the bees will banquet rarely there, by-and-by. A parlour in an Irish cabin !—yes, in good truth, and a very pretty one : the floor strewed with the ocean's own sparkling sand ; pictures of, at all events, half the head saints of the calendar, in black frames, and bright green, scarlet, and orange draperies; a corner cupboard, displaying china and glass for use and show, the broken parts carefully turned to the wall; the inside of the chimney lined with square tiles of blue earthenware, and over it an ivory crucifix, and a small white chalice full of holy water; six high-backed chairs, like those called "education" of modern days; a well-polished round oak table, and a looking-glass of antique form, complete the furniture. The window-forget the window!—oh, that would be unpardonable ! It consists of six unbroken panes of glass, and outlooks on such a scene as I have seldom wit­nessed. ;Let us open the lattice—what a gush of pure, invigorating air ! Behold and gaze—ay, first on the flower-bed that extends to where Mrs. Cassidy, with right good taste, has opened a view in the hawthorn hedge; then on, down that sloping meadow, dotted with sheep, and echoing the plaintive bleat; of the young and tender lambs; on, on to the towering cliff, which sends, leaping over its blackened sides, a sparkling, foaming torrent, rapid as lightning,, and flashing like congregated diamonds, for the sun's brightness is upon it, to

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the wide-spreading sea, which reposes in its grandeur, like a sheet of molten silver. Yonder torrent is strangely beautiful. The rock from which it gushes is dark and frowning, not even a plant springing from its sterile bed; yet the pure water issues from it, full of light, life, and immortality, like the spirit from the Christian's clay. Dear Mrs. Cassidy loves the sea; her husband was owner and commander of a small trading vessel; and her happiest days were spent in coasting with him along the Irish, English, and Welsh shores. He died in his own comfortable home, and was quietly buried in Bannow church, leaving his widow (who, but for her rich brogue, might, from her habits, have passed for an English woman) and one son, independent of the frowns or smiles of a capricious world. They had wherewithal to make them happy in their own sphere.

Edward was, even at two years old, an embryo sailor; a careless, open-hearted boy, who loved everything ardently, but nothing long; except, indeed, his mother, who often regretted that his rambling disposition afforded her so little prospect of enjoyment in after life. She had a brother in the north of Ireland, who, dying, left an only child, our fair Lilly, lovely and desolate in a cold world; but Mrs. Cassidy would not suffer any of her kith or kin to want when she had "full and plinty;" and, accompanied by Edward, then a boy about fifteen, she journeyed to Tyrone, and returned to her cottage with the orphan girl. Soon after this circumstance (of which I was then ignorant), I paid the good lady a visit; and when the country topics, of setting hens, feeding calves, and the dearness of provisions, were exhausted, I asked her if she still used her Quern ?

" Is it the Quern ?—and that I do, lady; just look at this!—(producing a very nice and snowy cake)—and, sure, bad manners to me for not axing ye to taste it, and my own gooseberry, before! Look at this, there's not a mill in the counthry could turn out such bread as that; and if ye like to see it at work, I've just lifted it under the tborn yonder, to the sunny side of the ditch, and been instructing a poor colleen, that the world 'ud be after hitting hard, because she'd no friends, never a one, barring me, if I hadn't brought her here to be like my own—and why not, sure, and she my brother's child ? Well, I've been tacheing her how to use the Quern, as in duty bound; she's helpless as yet, but she shall soon know everything."

I followed Mrs. Cassidy into the garden, and, looking towards " the sunny side of the hedge," saw the child she had mentioned. She might then have been about thirteen ; her figure was slight and bending as a willow wand, and the deep black of her low frock finely contrasted with a skin transparently white; her hair fell in thick curls over her neck and shoulders, and in the sunbeams looked like burnished gold; it was not red—oh, no!-—but a pale, shining, and silky auburn. She was occupied in turning the Quern with one hand, and letting the grain drop from the other; when she looked towards us, and shook back the curls from her face, I thought I had never seen so sweet a

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countenance; her forehead was high and finely formed; but her soft blue eyes seemed better acquainted with tears than smiles; there was something even more than polite in her address—it possessed much of rustic dignity; and the tones of her voice were like those of a well-tuned instrument.

The cottage now possessed for me a charm that was irresistible; for, supe­rior as the people of Bannow are to the general Irish community, nothing so pure as the Lilly had ever blossomed among us before.

Even the rude peasantry seemed to look on her as something far above them; and when, accompanied by her aunt and cousin, she passed up Carrick-hill on the Sabbath morning, to join in the prayers and receive the blessing of the priest, they all watched her footsteps, and declared that she appeared " a'most like a born jantlewoman "—no small praise from the poor Irish, who venerate high birth to an extraordinary degree. Lilly's time was not idly spent: Mrs. Cassidy resolved that she should know everything; and as her childish days had been occupied solely in the business of education—as she read correctly, and wrote intelligibly, it was time, the good lady thought, to teach her all manner of useful occupations; consequently, spinning succeeded knitting, and then came marking, shirt-making in all its divisions, namely, felling, stitching, button-holes, and sewing; then milking and churning; the best practical method of hatching and bringing up chickens, ducks, turkeys, geese, and even pea-fowl—two of the latter were, unfortunately for poor Lilly, given to her aunt just as she arrived at the cottage; then the never-ending boiling of eggs, and chopping of nettle-tops for the young turkeys, that they might put forth their red heads without danger of croup or pip; then the calf, an obstinate orphan, had to be dosed with beaten eggs and new milk, because he would not feed as he ought; her cousin's and aunt's stockings regularly mended; and, worst of all, a dirty shoeless gipsy, the maid of all work to the establishment, was given to my sweet Lilly's superintendence:—to Lilly, who had never known a mother's care, had been a foolish father's idol., and who had no more method or management than a baby of five months old ; however, her and gentleness worked wonders; from before sunrise she toiled and thought; and, at the end of six months, astonished even Mrs. Cassidy. The Quern never ground such fine flour, the poultry were never so well fattened, the needlework was never so neatly finished, and the cottage never so happy, as since Lilly had been its inmate! When the toils of the day were comparatively ended, and when the refreshing breezes of evening rambled among the sweet yet simple flowers that blossomed in the garden, Lilly loved to sit and read, and watch the blue waters; and, as the night advanced, gaze on the meek moon floating in her own heavens. She had now resided nearly three years at the cottage, and was, one fine summer evening, sitting under the old thorn tree; some grief must have been heavy at her heart, for tears, in the full moonlight, were trembling on her long eyelashes:—perhaps her aunt had been angry, or Edward had plagued her with too many of his never-ending errands.

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" Well, cousin Lilly!" exclaimed a joyous voice, " I never saw such a queer girl as ye are; ye've been trotting, and mending, and bothering all day, and now, instead of a race, or a dance, or anything that way, there ye sit, with yer ould books, and yer blue eyes, that bate the world for beauty. Lilly, dear— tears !—as I stand here, you've been crying ! What ails ye, Lilly ?—what ails ye, I say ? I take it very unkind of ye, Lilly,"—and he sat down and took her hand with much affection—" I take it very unkind of ye to have any trouble unknown to me who loves ye (Lilly tried to withdraw her hand) as an own brother. Has mother vexed ye ?"

"Oh, no!"

" Well, then, cheer up ! Come, come! James Connor has lent the barn to-night, and I met Kelly the piper going there, and there'll be a merry spree, and you must jig it with me, and Harry too, Lilly, dear; and mother 11 be glad ye go. Come, sure ye're a blessing to the ground ye walk on. Come, put on yer pumps and white stockings. The people say ye're proud, Lilly, but ye're not; though ye might be, for there's not one in the parish like ye."

Lilly's heart fluttered like a caged bird, as she did her cousin's bidding, and accompanied him to the barn, where the piper was blowing his best for the boys and girls, who footed gaily to their favourite jigs. The Irish, old and young, rich and poor, all love dancing; and, although their national dance is rude and ungraceful, there is something heart-cheering in witnessing the hilarity with which it inspires them.

While Lilly and Edward were joining in the amusements of the evening, Mrs. Cassidy was sleeping or knitting at her kitchen fire, until disturbed by the raising of the latch, and the “God save all here !" of " Peggy the Fisher."

I wish I could bring Peggy "bodily" before you, for she is almost a non­descript. Her linsey-woolsey gown, pinned up behind, fully displayed her short scarlet petticoat, sky-blue stockings, and thick brogues; a green spotted kerchief tied over her cap—then a sun-burnt, smoke-dried, flatted straw hat— and the basket of fish, resting " on a wisp o' hay," completed her head gear. Whenever I met her in my rambles, her clear, loud voice was always employed either in singing the " Colleen Rue," or repeating a prayer; indeed, when she was tired of the one, she always returned to the other; and, stopping short the moment she saw me, she would commence with—

" Wisha thin it's my heart bates double joy to see you this very minit. Will ye turn yer two good-looking eyes on thim beautiful fish, lepping alive out o' the basket, my jewil. Och, it's thimselves are fresh, and it's they 'ud be proud if ye'd jist tell us what ye'd like, and then we'd let ye have it a dead bargain !"

Peggy was certainly the queen of manoeuvring, and thought it "no harm in life to make an honest pinny out o' thim that could afford it;" but she had strong affections, keen perceptions, and much fidelity; her ostensible trade was selling fish, but there was more in her basket than met the eye—French silks,

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rich laces, or some drops of smuggled brandy for choice customers ; and when the farmers' wives could not pay her in cash they paid her in kind—meal, feathers, chickens, and even sucking-pigs, which Peggy disposed of with perfect ease, so extensive were her connexions. Then, she was the general match­maker and. match-breaker of the entire country. Those who could write confided to her their letters; those who could not, made her the messenger of sweet or bitter words, as occasion required. And, to do Peggy justice, she has even refused money, ay, solid silver and gold, rather than prate of love affairs; for she pitied (to use her own words) "she pitied the young craturs in love; well renumbering how her own soft heart was broke, many's the day ago." Peggy lived anywhere—everywhere. There were few, married or single, who either had not needed, did not need, or might not need Peggy the Fisher's assistance; and the best bit and sup in the house were readily placed before her.

"Och, Peggy, honey!" exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy, "is that y'erself!—sure 'tis I'm glad to see ye, agra; and what '11 ye take ?—a drop o' tay, or a trifle o' whiskey to keep the could out o' y'er stomach; or may-be a bit to ate—there's lashings o' white bread, and sweet milk, and the freshest eggs ever was laid."

"Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Cassidy, ma'am; sure it's y'erself has full and plinty for a poor lone woman like myself. I'll take the laste taste in life o' whiskey—and may-be ye'd take a drop o' this, ma'am dear; a little corjial I has, to keep off the water flash,"—continued she, screwing up the corner of her left eye, and placing her basket on the table.

" Have ye got anything striking handsome under thim dirty sea-weeds and dawny shrimpeens, agra?" inquired Mrs. Cassidy.

" May-be I have so, my darlint, though it's little a poor lone cratur like me can afford to do these hard times; and the custom-officers, the thieving viilians, in Waterford, Duncannon, and about there, they's grown so 'cute that there's no ho wid 'em now, at all, at all. There's a thing that's fit for Saint Patrick's mother anyhow,"—displaying a green shawl with red roses on it— "there's a bom beauty for ye !—and such nataral flowers, the likes of it not to Be laet wid, in a month o' Sundays—there's a beauty !"

"Sure I've the world and all o' shawls, Peggy, avourneen!—and any how that's not to my fancy. What 'ud ye be axing for that sky-blue silk hand-'kerchief ?"

" Is it that ye're after ? It's the last I got o' the kind, and who 'ud I give a bargain to as soon as y'erself, Mrs. Cassidy, ma'am ?—and ye shall have it for what it cost myself, and that's chape betwixt two sisters; it's raal Frinch, the beauty!—and it's wronging myself I am to give it for any sich money— dog chape, at six thirteens."

" Och, ye Tory," exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy: " six thirteens for that bit of a thing! Is that the way ye want to come over a poor widow, ye thief o' the 'world ln and she avoided looking at the tempting article by fixing her eyes on her knitting, and working with double speed.

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" Well, mistress dear, I never thought ye'd be so out of all rason," and Peggy half folded up the handkerchief. Mrs. Cassidy knitted on, and never even glanced at it.

" It's for Miss Lilly, I'm thinking, ye want it; and sure there's nothing in life would look so very nate on her milk-white skin as a sky-blue handkerchief —and so, ma'am, ye won't take it, and it killing chape ?"

Mrs. Cassidy shook her head.

" Well, to be sure, for you I would do———so, there! (throwing it on the, table) ye shall have it for five thirteens ; and that's all as one as ruination to myself."

" I'll tell ye what, Peggy, a'coushla!" and Mrs. Cassidy took off her specta­cles, and looked at the kerchief attentively: "I'll tell ye what; it was four thirteens ye meant; and ye meant also to give Lilly two yards o' that narrow blue rib and for knots, that ye promised her long agone."

" I own to the promise, as a body may say," responded Peggy; "I own to the promise; but as to the four thirteens for sich as that!—woman alive!— why—"

" Asy, asy, Peggy, honey, no harm in life!" interrupted Mrs. Cassidy, " take the blue rag, it's no consarn o' mine."

"Blue rag, indeed!—but"—after a pause—"it's no rag, Mrs. Cassidy, ma'am, and there's no one knows that betther nor you that has all the wisdom in the whole counthry to y'erself; but howsomever, take it; sure I wouldn't disagree with an ould residenther, for the vallee of a few brass fardins."

Mrs. Cassidy extracted, from the depths of an almost unfathomable pocket, a long stocking, slit like a purse in the centre seam, arid tied with a portion of red tape at either end. From amid sundry crown, half-crown, "tin-pinny," and "five-pinny" pieces, the exact sum was selected, paid, and the kerchief deposited in an ancient cupboard that extended half the length of the kitchen, and frowned, in all the dignity of Jamaica mahogany, on the chairs, settle, and deal table.

" The boy and girl are out, I'm thinking," commenced Peggy, as she lit her cutty pipe, arid placed herself comfortably in the chimney corner, to enjoy the bit of gossip, or, as well-bred people call it, "conversation," which the ladies, ay, and the lords of the creation, so dearly love.

" They're stept down to Connor's, to have a bit of a jig; I'm right glad to get Lilly out, she's so quiet and gentle, and cares as little for a dance, and less, by a dale, than I do!"

" Och, ma'am dear, that's wonderful, and she so young, and so perfect handsome!—and more thinks that same nor me."

" Who thinks so, Peggy?" inquired Mrs. Cassidy, anxiously.

" What I—ye don't know, may-be ?—Why thin I'll jist hould my tongue." " Yell do no such thing, Peggy; sure the colleen is as the sight o' my eye —as dear to my heart as my own child, which I hope she'll be one o' these

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days, plase God; and I tould ye as good as, that before now—the time, d'ye mind, I bought her the green silk spencer. And why not ? Ain't I rareing her up in all my own ways ?—and isn't she o' my own blood ? And Ned, the wild boy, that has full and plinty to keep him at home, if he'd jist mind the land a bit, and give over his sailing talk, 'ud make a fit husband for her; and thin I could make my sowl, arid die asy in yon little room, betwixt my son and daughter. And I tell ye what, Peggy the Fisher, there's no use in any boy's casting an eye at rny Lilly, for Ned's wife she shall be ; and I, Maura Cassidy, say it—that was never gainsaid in a thing she took in her head, by man or mortal."

" Very well, my dear, very well, why!" ejaculated Peggy, as, gathering herself over the dying embers of the turf fire, with her elbows on her knees, she jogged slowly backward arid forward, like the rocking motion of a cradle. They both remained silent for some time. But Mrs. Cassidy's curiosity, that unwearying feeling of woman's heart, neither slumbered nor slept; and, after waiting in vain for Peggy to recommence the conversation, she could contain no longer.

" Who was talking about Lilly's beauty, Peggy ?" " Oh, my dear, sure everybody talks of it; and why not ?" " Ay, but who in particular?"

" Och, agra!—no one to say particular—that is, very particular." " III tell you what, my good woman," said Mrs. Cassidy, rising from her seat, and fixing herself opposite the Fisher: "if I find out that you've been hearing or saying anything, or what is more, hiding anything from me, regarding my boy and girl, when I get you at the other side o' the door (for I wouldn't say an indacent thing in my own house), I'll jist civilly tell ye my mind, and ax ye to keep yer distance, and not to be meddling and making wid what doesn't consern ye."

Peggy knocked the ashes out of her pipe, crammed her middle finger into it to ascertain that all was safe; and, putting it into her pocket, curtsied to Mrs. Cassidy, and spoke—" As to good woman, that's what I was niver called afore; and as to not hearing—would ye have me cork my ears whin I hard Ned and Harry Connor discoorsing about the girl, and I at the other side o' the hedge ? Och, och!—to think I should iver be so put upon ! But good night, good night to ye, Mistress Cassidy—cork my ears, agra! And now," she continued, as she hastily stepped over the threshold, " I'm at the other side the door, so say yer say."

Mrs. Cassidy's curiosity was more excited than ever; and her short-lived anger vanished as Peggy withdrew.

" Stop, Peggy!—don't be so hot and so hasty; sure I spoke the word out o' the face, and meant no harm; come in, a'coushla; it's but nataral I'd be fiery about thira, and they rny heart's treasures."

In three minutes they were as good friends as ever, and Peggy disclosed

Page 9 the secret, which, notwithstanding her apparent unwillingness, she came to the cottage to tell. " Ye mind the thorn hedge, where the knock slopes off; well, the day was hot, and I tired with the heat, and the basket, and one little thing or another; and so down I sits on the shady side, thinking o' nothin' at all, only the crows—the craturs—flying to and fro, feeding the young rawpots that kicked up sich a bobbery in their nests wid the hunger; and of what the priest said from the altar aginst smuggling, and if he was in right down arnest about it; and then it crassed my mind, to be sure, how hard it was for a poor lone body to make an honest bit o' bread these hard times, and the priest himself agin it; well, by an' by, who comes shtreelin' up the hill at my back, but your Ned and young Harry Connor; well, I was jist goin to spake, but by grate good luck I held my wisht; well, the first word I hears was from Ned's own mouth, and they were a good piece off at the time, too; ' She's always the same,' says he, ' always—sure I love her as my own sister.' ' May-be more nor that,' says Harry, quite solid. ( Harry,' says Ned, solid like, too, ' don't go to the fair wid the joke; look, I'd suffer this arm to be burnt to the stump to do Lilly any good; heart frindship I have for her, and well she desarves it, but no heart love.' Wid that, my jewil! I thought Harry Connor 'ud have shook the hand bodily off Ned; and thin I hard Ned say as how he'd like a more dashinger girl for a wife nor his cousin; and thin agin he talked about travelling into foreign parts; and thin they comaraded how Ned 'ud bring them in company together as often as he could, and talked a dale o' the dance, and Ned said he never see the colleen yet he'd like to marry; and Harry's quite done over, for he swore he'd lay down his life for one look o' love from Lilly's eyes; and they kep' on talkin' an' talkin', and I kep' creepin' an' creepin' alongside the ditch, till the road turned :—and ye know it was my duty to find the rights of it, and you consarned."

Mrs. Cassidy waxed very wroth as Peggy's narrative drew towards a close; she had made up her mind that the cousins should be married, and thought she had managed the matter admirably. She was always praising Edward to Lilly, and Lilly to Edward; and it was quite impossible to think that two creatures so perfect (notwithstanding, it must be confessed, that her soil often occasioned her much anxiety), and, in her opinion, so well suited to each other, should be constantly in each other's society without falling in love. Lilly's anxiety to promote her cousin's happiness, the perfect willingness with which she made all her industry, all her amusements, yield to his caprice, convinced Mrs. Cassidy that she would not oppose her wishes: and then came another puzzling consideration—Edward had always appeared so very fond of Lilly I The poor woman was fairly baffled; how she wished that Harry Connor was little, old, and withered as a cluricawn; but, no, he was tall, handsome, and more gentle, more polished than her son. Ned was gay and careless as ever; his raven hair curled lightly over his finely formed head, and his hazel eyes, full of bright laughter, accorded well with the merry smile that played around his mouth.

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He was frank and generous, but he was also violent and capricious. Had Lilly not been so much with him, nay, perhaps, even had he not instinctively felt that his mother wished him to marry her, he would have fallen over head and ears in love, at once. He admired and respected Lilly, yet her quiet virtues were a silent reproach to his recklessness; and at heart he longed to sail on the blue waters, and visit other lands. Next to his mother and cousin in his regards, came Harry Connor; and Harry well deserved it. He was a most extraordinary Irishman ; cautious and prudent, even when a youth, and gentle and constant. The second son of an opulent grazier, he had been educated for the priesthood, and would, no doubt, have been useful in his ministry, for he had kindly feelings towards all his fellow-creatures, but that the death of his elder brother made it necessary for him to assist his father and family in the management of the grass farm.

Poor Mrs. Cassidy!—do you not pity her ? Mothers are the same, I believe, all the world over; arid really it is a great shame that such an outcry should be raised against their innocent manoeuvrings, though it must be confessed they are sometimes very annoying, and not unfrequently end in a manner little anticipated. Poor Mrs. Cassidy ! After a few moments' cogita­tion, she was about to give vent to her anger, when the sweet voice of Lilly was heard, bidding " good night, and thank ye kindly," to—Harry Connor.

" Stay, stop, asy!" ejaculated Peggy, jumping up—" if that's Misther Harry, may-be (calling after him) ye'd jist give me, a poor cratur, a bit o' yer company down the lane, that I don't like to go alone: good night to ye kindly, and the blessing be about ye." And basket and all went off at a short trot—Peggy's peculiar gait.

" What ails ye, aunt dear ?" affectionately inquired Lilly; for Mrs. Cassidy had not spoken.

"What ails you, girl alive—or dead—for ye're as white as a sheet—and where's Ned ?"

"Ned went a piece of the way home with Katey Turner," replied Lilly, blushing, and tears gathering in her eyes at the same time.

"And you came a piece with Harry Connor?"

" I could not help it, aunt dear," said Lilly, earnestly. " Sure, Ned ran off with Katey, and asked Harry to see me home."

" He did, did he ? Why, then," cried the dame, rising in a great passion, " I'll soon tache him betther manners, the reprobate !"

"Oh, aunt, dear aunt!"—and poor Lilly threw her arms around Mrs. Cassidy's neck—" Oh, don't say a hard word to Ned—oh, may-be he couldn't help it!" and she burst into tears. " But don't, oh, don't, for the sake o' her that never angered ye, don't say a hard word to Ned."

"Ye re a good girl, I'll say that for you any how, my own colleen," said Mrs. Cassidy, kissing her fair forehead; " there, go to bed, my darlint; ye look very pale, ain't ye well ?"

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" Yes, aunt, thank ye; but ye're not angry with Ned ?"

" Well, well, go to bed, I'll not scoulcl him much, avourneen ?"

" Not at all, at all, my own dear aunt!"

" Well, there agra, you've begged him off; stay a minute, gramachree !"— Lilly was just mounting the ladder which led to her small chamber: she returned. " I jist wanted my child to tell me why she calls me aunt, now, that used to call me mother when first she came to me. Lilly, darlint! am I less a mother to ye now than I used to be ?"

" Oh, no, no, no !—not that, dear a—mother,"—she stammered out; and again her face and bosom were red—" not that!"

" What then, Lilly, love ? I hope I'm yer frind, and ye ought to tell me."

" Oh, nothin' at all—only Katey and the girls laughed when I called you mother, and said—"

"What did they say ?"

" Oh, all a folly!—only they said—'twas all a folly—they're very foolish, I'm sure."

" Well, but what was it, a'coushla ?"

" Why, that there could be only three sorts of mothers—born mothers, and step-mothers—and, and—oh, it's all a folly—(poor Lilly covered her face with her shawl)—mothers-in-law."

Mrs. Cassidy replied not, but kissed her cheek, and then Lilly flew up the ladder—closed her door—after a pause, half opened it again, and, without showing her face, said, "Remember, you promised not to be angry with Ned." Lilly's feelings were both new and painful; she wept very bitterly, as she knelt at the side of her humble couch, and pressed her face to the coverlet; was it because her aunt was angry with Edward ? No ; for her anger was like the shower in April, ardent, but passing soon. Was she vexed at Edward's attention to Katey ? She certainly thought he danced, laughed, and jested with her more than was necessary—but why unhappy at that ?—Katey was her friend, Edward her cousin. When Harry pressed her hand with so much tenderness, at the cottage door, why did she shake it from him, and feel as if insulted ? Lilly knew not her own heart, and wondered why she had spoken so sharply to poor Harry—Harry, who lent her books, and whose kindness was proverbial all over the parish. She was bewildered; all she knew was, that she was more unhappy than ever she had been in her life. She sat long, trying to collect her senses, and at last the rushlight sank into the socket of the white-ware candlestick; it had been her cousin's present. Then she again remembered that, although the moonbeams had long since began to peep through her little window, Edward was not returned; she opened the case­ment, which enclosed only two small panes of glass: the glorious prospect lay before her, and the watch-light gleamed brightly, over the dark blue waters, from the distant tower of Hook. The weather had long been calm and clear, and the full-blown roses, that had never felt a rough blast, or a chill-

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ing shower, imparted their sweet fragrance to the midnight air; the path by which Edward would return crossed the meadow, and her heart bounded when his figure appeared hastily striding homewards. " I hope he did not see me," thought she, as she closed the window: "yet why?—sure he's my cousin." In a moment after the latch was lifted, and she distinctly heard her aunt say:

"A purty time o' night, indeed, for you to march home, Master Edward Cassidy!—and to lave me, a poor widow, and yer own mother, alone in this desolate hut."

"It's a comfortable hut, thin," replied Edward, laughing; " and how are ye lone, whin there's Lilly, and Ruth—the dirty sowl—and Bran, to say nothin' of ould puss, sitting so snug on the hearthstone ?"

"How do you know Lilly's here ? It's little ye care about her, or ye'd be far from letting that long gomersal of a fellow, Harry Connor, see her home ; and you flirting off with that jilting hussey, Katey Turner."

" Katey Turner's no jilt, or flirt either, but a tight, clane-skinned little girl; and Harry's no gomersal at all; but an honest fellow, that'll make a good husband for my handsome cousin, one o' these days—and not long neither. What a wedding we'll have, for sartin !"

Poor Lilly's heart sickened, and her head felt giddy, as she heard these words. She never intended listening, but her respiration was impeded in the deep anxiety with which she waited for, yet dreaded, her aunt's reply. Mrs. Cassidy was struggling for utterance; she had seldom, perhaps never, been so enraged. Ned's words, and perfect carelessness of manner, had almost mad­dened her.

" Look ye, Ned—Ned Cassidy!" said she, after a pause, during which Edward saw the storm gathering fiercely—" Look, I'd sooner see Lilly stretched on that table ; ay, I'd sooner a hundred times, arid a thousand to the back of it, keen at her berrin', than see her thrown away upon that ownshugh ! She's for his betthers, though little they seem to think of it."

"Whew! whew!—is that what ye're after, mother dear? Well, then, now I'll jist tell ye the rights of it, and then we'll drop it for ever, Amin. As to Lilly, a betther girl niver drew the breath o' life ; and I regard and love her as a sister; but as to anything else, mother—I won't marry ; I'll see the world. And, any how, she's not the patthern o' the wife I'd like."

Mrs. Cassidy clenched her fist, and, holding it close to her son's face, ejacu­lated—" Holy Mary !—ye born villain!—ye disobadient spalpeen!—ye limb o' Satan!—ye—ye—down upon yer bare knees, and ax my pardon for crassing me; or, by the powers ! I'll have father Mike himself here to-morrow mornin', and marry ye out o' hand." "I ax pardon for contradicti

ng ye, mother; but yell do no sich thing. Say two more words like that, and the dawn o' day '11 see me abord the good ship 'Mary,' that's lying off Hook-head, where they'd be main glad of a boy like me, as I heard to-night, to go a few voyages, and see the world."

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" And is this the thanks I get for all my love, ye scoundrel; to fly in my face after that manner ? Ye may trot off as soon as ye plase ; but the priest shall know yer doings, my boy. Och! ye ungrateful!—down this minit, as I tould ye ; and, as God sees and hears me, ye shall be married to Lilly before to-morrow's sun sets!" " I see, mother, ye don't mane to listen to rason ; but one word for all: by the blessing o' God, I'll not marry Lilly; and I don't care that—(snapping his fingers)—for priest or minister."

" Take that, thin, for your comfort, and my heavy curse wid it!" And, enraged by her son's so wilfully destroying the hope that had latterly been the chief blessing of her life, in her fury she struck him a violent blow on the face. Poor Lilly rushed to her door; but her powers were paralysed. She could not undo the simple fastening, but clung to the window, that was close to it, for support. Edward spoke not; and his mother's arm sank by her side. Her rage was abating, when Edward, bursting with smothered anger, which he pent up with a strong effort, deliberately took his hat, walked to the door, and out, without uttering a single word. " Ned, Ned!" exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy; but Ned returned not. Lilly, pale and wild in her appearance, in a few moments was at her aunt's side. She had seen the desperate haste with which her cousin crossed the garden, trampling the flowers in his path; and, alarmed lest his passion should lead him to some dreadful act, she rushed down the stairs.

" Oh ! to think," said she, " after yer promise, that ye should be so cruel to your own child, and all for one like me ! Oh, if I'd ha' thought it, sure the grass shouldn't be wet under my feet before I'd be far from this house I Oh, call him back—call him back !—and I'll fly the place for ever !"

" He'll come back fast enough, I'll ingage," said the widow, "he's not sich a fool;" she opened the door, and saw in the moonlight his receding figure.

" He'll not, aunt. Oh, the blow!—the blow !—to think of yer striking so high a spirit, and that 'Mary' lying off Hook-head, and the mate of her, Katey's uncle, putting his comether on Ned ! Sure I saw it, only I never thought it 'ud come to this, at the weary dance to night."

" Indeed !" responded the mother, now really alive to the danger of losing her son. " Lilly, my darlint, you can save him ; fly!—you can overtake him; there, he hasn't turned the knock yet; tell him he shall do as he plases; say, that I'll beg his pardon; only as he valees his mother's blessing, not to desart her in her ould age."

Lilly drew her cloak over her head, and ran, as fast as her strength permitted, after her wayward cousin, whose firm, quick step, as he paced towards the main road, rendered the maiden's fleetness almost ineffectual: but at length she stood panting, almost fainting, at his side. It was then that a tide of conflict­ing feelings deprived her of utterance ; for the first time, she felt herself a rejected, despised creature, and that by the being a thousand times dearer to

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her heart than life itself. When he knew that she had overheard the dreadful conversation in the cottage, what must he think of her ? Modesty, the sweet blossom of purity, the mild glory of woman's life, had been outraged by her pursuing, even in such a cause, one who disdained her; and, as these ideas shot like fire through her brain, she caught at a tree for support, and mur­mured, ff Holy Mary, direct thy child !" Edward spoke not, but looked on his cousin, with more of bitterness and scorn than of any other feeling. Twice she tried to speak, but vainly she unclosed her parched lips. " Ned," she at length articulated, " you are going, I know, to lave us; her, I mane, your mother; and you know, Ned, she has no hope but you. Oh, Ned! Ned !—in her ould age do not fly her; think o' the time when she carried ye in sorrow and in bitter trouble—think—"

"-. Of the blow she gave me S" interrupted Edward, fiercely : " by all the holy saints, if a man, ay, my own father, had dealt so with me, I'd—I'd have knocked him down, and ground him into the hard earth !" And he stamped so violently, that poor Lilly was terrified at so sudden a burst of passion. " Ned, you know you provoked her, and—"

" And so you, Lilly," he again interrupted, " you, with all yer modesty and quietness, you collogued against me too: and that's the upshot of your coming among us ! Och ! och ! I thought ye had a more dacent spirit than to follow a boy to ax him to marry ye, and he yer cousin !" Lilly, roused by this unjust sarcasm, was collected in a moment; drawing her slight yet dignified figure to its full height, she shook back the beautiful hair that had clustered over her mournful countenance, and stood firm and erect, with the beams of the chaste full moon gleaming upon her uncovered head.

" Ye don't know me, then; and I have lived under the same roof with ye three years and more; but ye don't know me, Edward Cassidy : if, by axing the powerful king of England, who sits on his throne, to make me his queen, it could be done—the poor orphan girl would scorn it! Lilly O'Brien followed ye not for that. The grate God, that sees all hearts, knows that the words I spake are true. Never, till this woful night, did I think that yer mother Wished me to be nearer to her than I am. Ye bitterly wronged me; but that's not what I came to say. I tell ye that yer mother begs ye to come back; and not to trust to the wild sea, when every comfort in life is for ye on land. She asks ye to forget; she even begs of ye, for Christ's sake, to forgive the blow; but stop, that's not all—I, the desolate orphan, who have, innocent-like, been the cause of all this misery—I beg of you, you that so insulted and wronged me—and I do to you what I never did to any yet, but my heavenly comforters—on my two knees, I beg ye to return. Edward Cassidy, ye shall see me no more. I have no other nome, but I am young, and, for a poor girl, not ignorant, praise be to your mother for it. I will quit the house for ever; ay, before the sun rises. Do not let me feel that I have driven the fatherless boy; to labour, may-be to ruin."

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She raised her clasped hands as she spoke, and her eyes, filled with the pure light of virtue, met the wild gaze of her cousin.

" Lilly," he replied, raising her from the ground, and looking upon her more kindly, " things must go on as they are. What comfort would my mother—God help her!—have without you ? I have been a trouble and a plague to her—but you have been like an own tender child, and smoothened every step. I'll go to sea for a while—it 'ill be long afore I can forget what she did tonight; whatever divil tempted us both to sich anger. I'll be well to do in the same ship wid Katey's uncle, and ye'll all be glad to see me, may-be, whin I come back. And Lilly, I ax yer pardon for saying the say I did of you ; it wasn't from the heart, only the temper. I do know ye betther; and my friend, Harry Connor, 'ill be a happy man yet, if ye'll only jist give him that young heart that's as innocent as the new-born babe. And now, God be wid ye ! The ' Mary' may sail at day-brake for what I know to the contrary. God bless ye S"

The heedless youth hastened on.

" Oh, Ned, Ned!—and won't ye say a word, or even make a sign, that I may tell yer mother all is pace ?" He stopped and waved his hat over his head, and the belting of many foliage trees, that enclosed Mr. Herriott's estate, hid him from her sight. Tears came to her relief, and she felt happy that Edward did not suspect how dearly she loved him. She turned homeward with a sorrowing heart, and was proceeding slowly on, when Peggy the Fisher's little black dog, Coal (we beg his pardon for not mentioning the very busy; ugly little gentleman before), ran out of a break in the adjoining hedge, and renewed his acquaintance with Lilly, by jumping and whining in that peculiar tone which shows a more than friendly recognition. Lilly was astonished; but still more so when the flattened hat and round rosy face of Peggy appeared through the same opening.

" Why, then, Miss Lilly, dear, is it yer fetch ?—or where are ye moving along, like a fairy queen, in the green meadows by the moonlight ? Ah, gra-rnachree !" she continued, forcing her way through the hedge, " ye look like a spirit, sure enough ! My poor colleen! Sorrow soon withers the likes o' you."

Lilly felt sadly mortified, for she had little doubt that Peggy had overheard the conversation between her and Edward. And, although " the Fisher" kept love secrets with extraordinary fidelity, yet she certainly did not wish to trust her.

" So he's gone, the obstinate mule !—but I ax yer pardon. I hard every word of it, over the place, just by accident, as a body may say ; for you see/ mavourneen, I was waiting for a particklar frind that promised to meet me about a little bit o' business that can't just be done by daylight, on account of the law. Och ! it's hard for a lone woman to get a bit o' dacent bread ; and the free rovers thimselves are getting so 'cute that ther's no coming up to thim at all, at all; but I'm keeping ye here, and the poor woman 'ill be half mad till

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she hears tidings o' Ned, the boy. I'll walk a step wid ye, and be back time enough yet. God help me! I must travel to Hook and Ballyhack too, the morrow mornin'. Och ! but it's hard to 'arn an honest pinny in this wicked world." And the lady smuggler crossed herself very devoutly.

" Hook 1 are ye going to Hook to-morrow mornin' ?" inquired Lilly.

" Plase God, I'll do that same."

" Oh, Peggy, thin, it would be an act o' charity just to take Ned some o' his bits o' clothes and things; if he will go, sure he ought to go dacent; and I'll make up the bundle for him, and lave it under the black thorn, in an hour or two ; for I'll try and get her to bed—the Lord console her!—and stale thim out like, for I know she'll he too angry to send him any comfort yet a bit, and the ship may sail before she comes to herself."

" Why, thin, that's wise and good, the colleen 'gra—but sure you're the last that ought to grieve after the boy; it 'ill be well for you, for sartin ; the ould woman has all in her own power—and sure it's to the one that bides wid her she'll lave it. Mind yer hits, and ——"

" What d'ye mane by spakeing to me after that fashion ?" said Lilly, dart­ing a look of anger on her companion, which, if Peggy could have seen, she must have felt. " How d'ye think I could get such bitter black blood in my veins, as to plan such divil's mischief as that! Keep that sort of advice for thim that 'ill put up with it; Lilly O'Brien scorns it."

" Hullabullo! there we go! Well, if ye're so wrapt up in thim that doesn't care a skreed for ye, why ye'd betther just go to the fairy woman and get a charrm, and bring him back, my purty Miss."

" I'll tell ye what, Peggy—I don't meddle or make with anybody, and no­body need meddle or make with me; nobody can say agin my liking my cousin —and why not ? My aunt meant all kindly to both ; but the thorns are sown and grown; and sure it's heart sorrow to think o' his flitting from his own home; but if he was willin' this minute to take me afore the priest, d'ye think I'd have the hand and not the heart ? Fairy woman, indeed! I've no belief in such, nonsense."

" Oh, to hear how she spakes o' the good people, and the very spot we're in, may-be—Lord save us !—full o' thim! Well, there's the house—I'll take the bundle safe, agra." She stopped for a moment to watch Lilly enter the cottage, and then muttered: " I can't make her out; she's either a born nataral, or something much above the common."

Lilly O'Brien found it a painful duty to administer consolation, where she herself so much needed it; but, after all, continual employment is the best balm to the sorrowing mind. Save that her cheek was somewhat paler, and her gentle smile less frequent, six months had made little change in my sweet Lilly's appearance. Not so was it, I am sorry to say, with Mrs. Cassidy, poor woman! she felt her son's desertion, as a mother only can feel; but still more she grieved, when week after week passed, and the Bannow postman brought

Page 17

no letter from the wandering boy. Post evenings found her at the end of the lane that led to her cottage, anxiously watching John Williams's approach. Still, no letter cheered her broken, restless spirit; though she would never confess that she wandered forth on this errand, every Monday and Friday found her on the same spot; and she was on those days more bustling and fidgetty than usual. Sometimes she would abuse the absent one in no gentle terms; but Lilly never failed to remember some kind act of her cousin's, and her low musical voice, in the soft tones of unaffected feeling, was ever ready to plead for him. At other periods the widow would weep like a child over some little circumstance that brought Ned to her recollection. The flowers he planted blossomed—or the bee-hives he had watched wanted thatching—or the table he made lost its leg—or the pig wanted ringing. Lilly never mentioned him, ex­cept when her aunt led to it; but her eyelid was often heavy with tears.

Luckily for all parties, an event occurred that fully employed, for the time, my worthy old friend's thoughts and actions.

The windmill, that, from the landlord's depending on the steward to get it repaired—from the steward's depending on the mason to see to it—from the mason's depending on the thatcher—the thatcher on the carpenter—the carpen­ter on somebody, or nobody, or anybody but himself (after the true Irish fashion)—the windmill, Mrs. Cassidy's particular aversion—the windmill!—that had suffered a paralysis for more than five years, although everybody said how useful it could be made—the windmill was repaired, furnished with new wings, and commenced operations within the short space of three weeks, to the astonishment of the natives, who (I must confess it, however unwillingly) are like all their countrymen and women, the most procrastinating race on the face of the earth. Mrs. Cassidy was annoyed beyond measure. The Quern was kept in constant motion, and Lilly was left at home in " pace and quietness," while her aunt sidled from house to house, exhibiting specimens of the flour ground in her own cottage, arid contrasting it with what she termed "the coorse trash o' branny stuff, made up o' what not, that comes out o' that grinder a' top o' the hill."

Mrs. Cassidy was from home ; Lilly had finished her allotted portion of flour, and was quietly preparing the frugal supper, when our old acquaintance, Peggy the Fisher, and Peggy's little dog, Coal, entered the cottage. Lilly had never forgotten the low cunning the Fisher had evinced on the evening, every transaction of which she so perfectly—too perfectly—remembered; and her pale cheek flushed, and a shadow passed over her brow, as she returned the greeting of the village busybody.

"I'm not for staying; may-be I'm not over welcome, Miss Lilly—but never mind, agra ! Whin people's angry wid people, and all for good advice, given from the heart, and wid good intirition, all through—why people must only put up wid it until oder people see the rights o' it. Well, my dear young cratur, it's little ye knows o' the world yet; ah! it's a bad world for a dacent

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poor lone woman to get a bit o' bread in. But sure you'll not be lone in it; I seen a handsome boy not tin minutes agone, that 'ud give his best eye—(and, troth, it 'ud be hard to choose betwixt 'em) for one look o' love from ye, as I hard him say, many's the day ago, with my own two ears."

" I am sorry for it, Peggy, if what you say is true; for no one in the wide world do I love, barring my own poor aunt."

" Asy, child ! Sure I'm not axing ye any questions—only, it's long, may­be, since ye hard from beyant seas ?"

" My aunt has never heard from Ned since he quitted," replied Lilly.

" Well, may-be, so best. No news is good news, they say."

" I hope so."

" Now, what 'ud ye say to a poor body that 'ud tell ye something ?"

" I'm sure I don't know," said Lilly ; " it would depend upon what that something was."

" Well, thin, here it is ;" and Peggy drew a dirty, sailor-like letter from her bosom, and placed it in Lilly's outstretched hand. " There, my colleen 'gra!—it's from Ned, sure enough; and for yerself. One who brought it tould me, for I've no laming ; how should a lone cratur like me get it! but it's little ye'll like the news that's in it; and I don't know how the ould 'ooman 'ill like it, at all, at all." Lilly stood unable to inquire, unable to open the letter she had so long wished for. Peggy, with her usual sagacity, saw the dilemma, and, settling the basket on her head, departed, with " God be wid ye, mavour-neen!" Lilly broke the wafer with trembling hand, and read as follows:—

" dear cousin,

" This comes hoping you and my mother is well, as I am at present— thanks be to God for the same !—and likes the sea ; but the land, somehow, is a saferrer life ; particular for a family man, as I am, having married out o' love, a girl I'm not ashamed of; an English born and bred, and well iddicated and man­nered as need be for a boy like me. I'd have written afore, but didn't know how it 'ud end, as I was terrible in love. And now I ax my mother's blessing. And, Lilly dear, it's you that can get that for me; and I know ye'll do your best to make things comfortable. I'm sorry mother and I parted in anger; but it will be all for the best in regard of the wife. And I intind bringing her home to ye, and we'll all be happy thegither agin, plase God ; and I'm detarmined my child sha'n't be an Englishman, so I mean my mother to be grandmother soon, and ax her to love Lucy—she's handsomer than her name, and had a good penny o' money too, only it's clane gone; things are dreadful dear here; and I know you'll love her, for you were always kind. And I beg you to write by return of post, and send a trifle o' money; as, for the credit o' my people, I'd like to return home dacent. Lucy joins me in love and duty ; and trusting to yer good word, rests yer affictionate friend and cousin till death,

"E. cassidy."

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Lilly sat long with her eyes fixed on the letter; she did not weep; but her cheek was ashy pale, and her eyes were swollen. Poor girl!—she had used her best efforts to root love from her heart, or to calm it into that friendship which she considered duty ; yet the shock she received, when the full truth was known, that Edward was actually married, and returning with his wife to Bannow, was almost too great for her to bear. She read the letter over and over again ; and at last sank on her knees, earnestly imploring God to direct and keep her in the right way. She arose, strengthened and refreshed by the pious exercise, and her pure and noble mind saw at once the course that was to be pursued. Then she reflected on her plan. Her aunt, she knew, would be terribly en­raged at his marrying at all. But an Englishwoman—a Protestant, most likely —it was dreadful!

" Lilly, my darlint, what are ye in such a study about ?" said the old woman, as she entered. " I've good news for ye—that vagahone mill—but save us !—why ye're like one struck !—has any thing turned contrary ? It's not post-night, nor—what ails ye, child ? Can't ye spake at onct ?"

" Sit down, aunt, dear; there's a letter from Ned, and he is alive and well."

" Thank God for all his mercies to me and mine ! Well, child ?"

" And he's tired os the sea, and coming home; and sure ye'll resave him kindly, aunt ?"

" The cratur ! and sure I will; why not ? Sure it was only a boy's wild-ness after all. Resave him ! after not setting my two eyes upon him for a whole tin months! Sure I will—and he'll like home all the betther! Och, I'm so happy 1" The poor woman threw her arms around Lilly's neck, and kissed her affectionately. " But what makes ye look so grave, my own colleen, that'll be my raal ——"

" Hush! whist! for God's sake, my dear, dear, dear aunt!" And Lilly fell on her knees : " Aunt dear, the night you and Ned had the bitter battle, ye promised me ye would not vex him ; yet ye did."

" Well, agra ?"

"Well, ye say the same thing now; and yet, may-be, ye'd do the same thing agin for all that!"

" Well, Lilly, darlint, there's no dread in life of it now, I am so continted; but where's the letter ? read me the letter—I knew he'd come back; I—"

" Aunt, I humbly ax yer pardon; have I, since Ned left ye, ever angered ye?"

" Never, my colleen."

" Then grant me this one prayer—may-be the last I'll ever ax ye, aunt!— swear, by this blessed book, never to reproach Ned with anything that is gone and past; but to take him to your own fond heart, and trate him as a son for ever."

" It's a quare humour, my darlint, but I can't refuse ye anything to-night, I'm so happy; and the letther to you and all, as fitting!" She took the prayer-

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book in her hand—" To swear to forget all that's past is it, mavourneen ?—and to trate him—"

" Say, him and his—him and his," interrupted Lilly, breathlessly.

" That I will," replied Mrs. Cassidy, " and with all the veins of my heart; to forget all that's past, and trate him and his with love and kindness to the end of my days."

She kissed the cross on the page of the prayer-book, after the manner of her religion, and was going to do the same to Lilly's fair forehead—when she ejaculated, " Thank God !" and fainted in her aunt's arms. She remained long insensible, and when the kind woman's efforts succeeded in restoring her, the first words the poor girl heard were—" that's my darlint child !—rouse up ; there, lane your head on my shoulder ; no wonder, agra ! he'd think o' those curls, and that gentle face, and that sweet voice that falls upon the ear widout ever disturbing it! Oh, sure he'll be my raal child ! I see it all: fitting to be sure that the letther should be to you. Sure he could not but remimber my darlint Lilly! Och, but I'm the happiest woman this minit in the big world, let t'other be who she will!"

A loud and heavy groan, as if the last effort of a bursting heart, which the maiden could not suppress, stayed the old woman's speech, and fixed her atten­tion again on Lilly's ghastly features—"Tell me directly, this minit, my brother's own child—tell me, is there any thing in that letther you've not tould me, as you wish to be happy ? Is Ned coming home ?" Lilly moved her head in assent. " Is he well and happy ?"

"Yes, aunt, yes."

"Then, in holy Peter's name, my lanna, what is it ails ye ? Sure I see long enough ago that ye loved him in yer heart's core; and now—praise be to Grod!—whin ye'll be married, and my heart at pace, ye're taking on as if the boy was kilt intirely! Sure, whin ye're married—"

" Aunt, for the blessed Virgin's sake, name that last no more, for it can't be!" "Don't dare to tell me that, unless ye mane to start the life out o' me at onct Lally, Lilly! sure, girl, ye've not been listening to Harry, and promised unknowns't to me, out o' maidenly anger with Ned? If ye marry Harry Connor, Lilly, ye'll sup sorrow, for it's a folly to talk, child—yer heart's not in it."

" I'll never marry either Ned or Harry, aunt, so don't mintion it."

" The girl's gone mad, clane mad," said Mrs. Cassidy, angrily. " Why, what's to put betwixt you and Ned now ?"

" His wife!" replied Lilly, solemnly, and for the first time pronouncing the word which banished every lingering hope from her heart; " his lawful wife; who," she added, "though born in a far counthry, will make ye a good daughter and a loving, when I lave ye."

It would be impossible to describe the terrific rage of Mrs. Cassidy, when informed of all the particulars ; even her noble-minded niece suffered from it;

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for when, forgetful of her oath, she declared Ned and his heretic wife should never find refuge in her house, " Remember," Lilly would say, and, as she spoke, the large tears would shower down her cheeks—" you swore on the blessed book to forget the past, and trate Mm and his with kindness to the end of yer days." Then Mrs. Cassidy reproached Lilly with " colloguing" against her ; with "joining the whole world to make her desolate ;" with " brakeing her ould heart," and " splitting it into smithereens." Then she raved about Ned, and his strange wife, and concluded with—" I'll bet my life she's no betther nor she should be."

" Oh, aunt, how can ye say sich a word! D'ye think Ned 'ud be the boy to bring black shame to his mother's hearth-stone ? Oh, no ! Protestant she is— and English—and all that—but not bad; don't think that, any how."

" Well, any how, Lilly, if a boy sarved me as you've been sarved, I'd skiver his heart to his backbone. I wish ye had a betther spirit in ye."

Lilly replied not, but heartily rejoiced when the good lady's anger and re-pinings were hushed in a sound sleep. She entered her own room, and counted over her savings, for Mrs. Cassidy had ever given more than supplied her wants. She had hoarded, not from selfishness, but from a feeling of generosity, that she might have the means of assisting some of her poorer neighbours ; and this she had often done. With her hands, as well as with her money, had she bestowed cleanliness and comfort to many a neighbour's cottage. Her little store only amounted to three one-pound notes, and a few shillings; the former she carefully wrapt up, and wrote as follows to her cousin :—

"dear ned,

" I could not ask yer mother to send you much money now, and I think she'd just as soon, when ye come, that ye didn't mention at all having resaved it, becase it's so little, on account o' Lady-day being nigh at hand, and the rent to make up, and money not plenty ; and we'll be glad to get ye back, and the young woman that's my cousin now, too. My aunt's angry yet, but she'll soon come about. Let me know aforehand., the day we may expect ye; and, with prayers that heaven may rain down blessings on you and yours, I rest,

" Your sincere
" Well-wisher and cousin,
" lilly o'brien. "

Inside, three pounds."
The early grey of morning saw Lilly pattering along the sea-shore in search of Peggy the Fisher. This busy woman often lodged at a little cottage near the cliffs, that belonged to one Daniel Mc Cleary, a man of doubtful character, as regarded the revenue. Lilly thought it not unlikely that Peggy would be there : so towards it she directed her steps. The sun had not even tinged the eastern clouds with his earliest rays, and the ocean rolled in heavy masses of

Page 22 leaden-coloured billows towards the shore, save where, here and there, amid the mistiness of morning, a fantastic rock, rooted in the a vasty deep," raised its dark head, prouder even than the proud waves that foamed for a moment angrily at its base, and then passed on. The cabin she sought was so miserable, that its mud walls and blackened thatch, overgrown with lichens and house-leek, were hardly distinguishable from the long fern and bulrush that grew round it; it rested against (indeed, one of its sides was part of) a huge mound of mingled rock and yellow clay ; and at spring-tides the sea advanced so very near, that the neighbours wondered Me Cleary remained there. There were two paths approaching this hovel; one from the country across the marshy moor that stretched in front; the other from the cliffs which partly overshadowed it. Lilly pursued the latter, but was a good deal surprised at observing a very dark cloud of smoke issuing from an aperture in the roof which constituted a chimney. She went on, looking at the smoke, and endea­vouring to guess its cause ; when, suddenly, she felt her footing give way, and almost at the same moment discovered she had fallen into an excavation, not deep, but extensive. Before she had time to look around her, the exclama­tion of " Tunder and turf!—what divil brought ye here ?" from the lips of Peggy herself, astonished Lilly beyond conception. Ere she could reply, three or four wild-looking men, not one of whom she recognised, gathered round her: the red, flickering light given by a peat and furze fire, and a few miserable candles, stuck without any apparent fastening against the clayey walls; the heaps of grain piled to the very roof; the blackened iron pots of all sizes; dirty tin machines, such as she had never before seen; and, above all, the smell of turf and whiskey, convinced poor Lilly that she had tumbled into an illicit distillery, the existence of which, although within half-a-mile of her own home, she had never suspected.

" Peg, ye ould cat, ye've sould the pass on us!" exclaimed one of the men, whose bare sinewy arms and glaring eye told both of strength and violence.

" Look out, Jack, for God's sake !" whispered another ; " who knows but the young one has a troop o' red-coats at her heels!"

" Divil drive 'em !" said a ferocious looking fellow, with a pitchfork; ec we're done up fairly now, and there's nothin' for it but to skiver the both, and thin jist trate 'em to a could bath this fine mornin'."

"What's the row?" inquired Daniel Me Cleary himself, coming forward. " Hey, powers above! ye ould traitor (turning to Peggy, who stood with her arms folded, and managed to hold her tongue for a time), is it you that brought Miss Lilly here ?—we're ruinated. Och! Peggy, Peggy, to think ye'd turn informer!"

" Me—is it me ?—ye lying vagabone !—Me ?—ye desarve to be briled alive; to be scalded to death in yer own potteen 'ud be too dacent a death for ye. Me, an informer !—the back o' my hand to ye, Dan Me Cleary, for ever, Amin. As for you, Mick Doole," and, as she spoke, she placed her arms

Page 23

a-kimbo, and advanced to the knight of the pitchfork ; " you were niver good —egg nor bird—nor riiver will be, plase God. And as to skivering, Mick Doole, may-be ye'll be skivered or worse, as nate as a Michaelmas goose, yer-self, afore long, only I scorn to talk o' sich things. Paddy Leary! oh, it's you that's the brave man ; look out for the red-coats; ah ! ah ! ah ! fait, an' it 'ud be good fun to see that innocent young cratur marching at the head of a rigiment, after yer bits o' stills, that, it's my thought, she knew nothin' about till this blissid minit! Sure it's myself was struck, to see her tumbling upon a hape o' barley, through the black roof, like a snowball. Spake out, my lannan! Sure ye niver did that ye'd be ashamed to tell, and that's what none here can say but yerself."

" Ay," added the first speaker, " we'll listen to rason."

" For the first time in yer life, thin," muttered Peggy.

" You gave me a letter last night," and Lilly turned to the Fisher as she spoke. " True for ye, it was he," pointing to Me Cleary, " brought it from Watherford."

" It required a quick answer. I couldn't get John Williams to take it, by rason he doesn't go till to-morrow; and I thought that you, Peggy, 'ud be on the trot somewhere near a post, so I wrote it last night, and thinking ye'd put up at Dan Cleary's, 'cause ye often do, I came early to try, for fear I'd miss of ye, and ill-luck sent me the cliff path, and all of a sudden I fell into this wild place; out o' which the Lord will, I hope, deliver the poor orphan in safety."

Lilly's tall, slight figure, and flowing hair, contrasted with the stout form of the Fisher, who stood a little in front; the rosary and a cross hanging from the arm which retained its a-kimbo position; while the scarlet kerchief that confined her grizzled locks fell, like a cowl, from the back of her head, and fully exposed her large bronzed features, which showed in strong relief, as the light from the crackling fire flashed occasionally on them. Mick Doole, large and bony enough for one of the ancient inhabitants of the Giant's Causeway, leaning on his pitchfork, and looking as if the roof rested on his huge black head, towering over both Paddy Leary and Daniel, who, standing at either side of the colossus, formed another group ; while some three or four beings, inde­scribable as to shape and features, because they were covered with dirt, and encompassed in an atmosphere of smoke and steam, filled up the back-ground.

" If ye came wid a letther, where is it ?" inquired one of the party.

Lilly drew it from her bosom, and presented it to the querist. He turned it over and over, and then, observing quietly—" The smoke blinds me so, I can't read,"—handed it to Daniel Me Cleary.

" Well, that's good enough, too," said Peggy, " I niver hard tell yet of man or woman who could read widout knowing B from a bull's fut."

" It's right enough after all," observed Daniel, " for I know this is for the

Page 24

boy I brought the letther from; not from him straight, only from one that knows him : there's something inside it ?"

The idea that Me Cleary might extract the money crossed Lilly's mind, but only for a moment, and she firmly replied, " Yes, three pounds." " And I'm the one that '11 put it safe into Taghmon, my jewel, afore twelve this blissid day," exclaimed Peggy, taking possession of the letter.

" Well, ye didn't go to come here as a spy, Miss Lilly, and 1 ax yer pardon for suspictlng ye ; but upon my troth it's dangerous, now ye know our sacret, to let ye go; who'll go bail for ye ?" " I will," said Peggy.

" Your bail won't do, ye cross divil," replied Paddy Leary.

" Mine will, then," said a stout, middle-sized man, coming from amid the distant group; " I've been watching ye all this tin minutes, ye cowardly set— and it's no joke to be frightening the Bannow Lilly after that fashion, ye bag o' weasels! My colleen, never mind ; ay, whin 'rattling Jimmy' goes bail, who grumbles ?" Certainly they all appeared quite satisfied. " Sure," he con­tinued, " only you've no gumtion, ye'd know that the kind heart is niver mane; why, look at her, d'ye think sich as she 'ud condescind to inform on yer pot-teen ? Ah ! ye don't know her as I do."

" I never saw ye before," exclaimed Lilly.

" What, not the lame bocher, that had lost the use of a leg, and was blind of an eye, all from lightning on the salt say?" and he imitated the voice and halt of a beggar to perfection: " 'twas a could night, but ye made me very comfortable, Miss Lilly ; and don't ye remimber the madman that frightened ye down the park, where ye were spreading the clothes to dry, last summer ? I was sorry to frighten ye, dear; but fait, I couldn't help it, for we were want­ing to get a little something, that same little sthill, past the park, and couldn't, for you; so I wint mad, and frightened ye ; yet—God bless ye !—ye thought I looked hungry, and so ye brought out sich a dale o' food, and laid it a'side the hedge; but come along, the white rose can't blow 'mong the coorse weeds."

" Jim--Jim, ax her to promise on the book," said Paddy. "Ax--not I: sure the honour's in her heart's blood." And so saying, " rattling Jimmy," the smuggler and the peep-o'-day-boy, lifted Lilly kindly and respectfully out of Daniel Me Cleary's black den.

“ And now," said Peggy, "I'll finish my prayers."

A fortnight had nearly elapsed, and no letter arrived from Edward. Lilly most truly wished to leave the cottage, and urged every reason she could think of to be permitted so to do. " Miss Herriott was going for the winter to Dublin, and wanted a bettermost lady's maid, and a little time there would do her the World and all o' good ;" or, " she had a bad cough, and it might go away if she went more up the country;" but the entreaties and tears of her aunt, to whose very existence she seemed as necessary as the air she breathed, silenced her Request; and she resolved to meet her relatives, however painful

Page 25

the meeting might be. " My aunt will get used to Lucy after a bit," thought she, " then I can go ; and, any way, he doesn't know I ever loved him, and sure it's no sin, in the sight o' God, to love him as I have loved." And Lilly was right ; there was no impurity in her affection. It was the feeling that seeks the good of its object, without any reference to self. She did not re­gret that Edward was happy with another ; nor had she, towards his wife, one jealous or unkind thought. " And sure I shall rejoice to see him happy." This was her last idea, as she rested her head on her humble pillow; and yet the morning found it wet with tears ; and then she knelt, and prayed to God to bless her aunt, and Edward, and his wife, and to direct her in all her paths.

" There's one wants to spake a word to ye, Miss Lilly, dear, jist down yonder," said Peggy the Fisher, as Lilly entered the garden, after breakfast, one morning.

" Who is it, Peggy ?"

" Well, thin, it's jist Harry Connor, he's had a letther from Ned, and he wants to see ye on the strength of it." Peggy passed on her way, and Lilly proceeded to the spot the Fisher had pointed out. Harry Connor was there.

" I got word from yer cousin, Lilly," said Harry, " that him and his wife are at Bally hack, and will be here to-morrow; and they'd have come before, but Lucy (I think he calls her) has been very ill from the sea-sickness; and he begged me to tell ye so. Dear Lilly, I was glad of the opportunity ; for there's no getting a sight o' ye; you're always at home, and even on Sundays yer aunt goes on the car to chapel, so one can't spake to ye. Oh, Lilly! Lilly! you were not always so distant—don't you remember when I used to sit of an evening in that garden, between you and Edward, reading, and you used to call me your master, and say the time passed so happily ?" Tears gathered in Lilly's eyes, as she turned away her face; for she, too, remembered those even­ings. " Lilly," continued the young man, " have you heard anything against me ? Your aunt always showed me the could shoulder; I don't blame her for that in past times; but now she would riot, if you wished. Oh, do not say you cannot love me, Lilly ! You have always shunned me when I wanted to spake about it; but tell me now, Lilly O'Brien ! I will wait; I will do anything you wish—anything—only say, Lilly, that you do not hate me."

" No, Harry, I do not, indeed;" and she met his eye with steady firmness. " Only one word more, and then," he continued, holding her struggling hand, " you may go. I will wait any time you please, only say that it shan't be in vain—that you will be my wife, and make one whose heart almost bursts at the thought of losing you—happy !"

" Harry, I cannot desave ye," she replied, " nor would not, if I could. I know I've shunned ye ; because I hoped that you would see why—to save us both all this heart-pain. I have always had rason to respect you—

Page 26

and I do; but love ye I never can; and I'll never marry the man I cannot love."

" Only one word," said Harry, earnestly—" sure you'll hear me—you say you've a regard for me. Lilly, you go nowhere ; you see no one. I do not speak of my being well to do in the world. But if ye were to let me near ye, to be with ye as I once was, in bygone days, the love might come. Oh, let me only try!"

" No, Harry, no, it would be useless; my heart here tells me so. You will find many fitter for ye, who can love ye as ye deserve. May the Almighty bless and watch over ye, Harry ! And farewell." The young man still grasped her hand; and, as he gazed on her beautiful face, he felt that, if it were turned from him for ever, his sun of happiness was indeed set.

" Lilly, before ye go, hear my last resolve. If ye really cast me off, I, who love ye more than life—I, who, to see even the glimmer of the candle carried by this hand, have watched in rain and tempest under yon old tree—I will leave my father's home; and, for your sake, Lilly, I will take priest's vows, and forsake the world. Think well, Lilly O'Brien, if, from mere whim or maiden modesty, you would drive me to that."

" Harry, God forbid that you should ever do so S Ye would not be fit to sarve on the altar, if for anything like that ye went there. No, Harry, my heart must go with nay hand. They're all I have to give, but they must go together: even you would despise, ay, hate that hand, if ye found, for lucre, it gave itself, when the betther part was wanting."

" Lilly, may-be ye love some one else ? Oh! may-be I'm proud; but surely there's not a boy all round the country could win your heart."

" I do not love any one for marriage. So, onct more, God bless ye, Harry !—may ye be happy—happier," she muttered to herself, " happier than I shall ever be !"

Harry stood, with his eyes fixed on the spot where Lilly had disappeared. His senses were bewildered; and it was not until a smart slap on the shoulder, and the voice of the everlasting Peggy, who appeared (one would almost believe, like Sir Boyle Roche's bird, in two places at the same time) at his elbow, with her broad platter face, shaded by the fish basket—that he became fully sensible of the reality of his interview.

" Sure I tould ye ye'd get no good of the colleen ; and if ye'd ha' mintioned the matther to me afore, I'd ha' tould ye the same thing, and may-be the rason too."

" I know," said Harry, musingly, " she does not love any one else."

" Och, ye do, do ye ?—humph, agra!"

" What do you mean, woman ? Sure she told me she did not; and her lips never lied, nor never will."

"Asy!—the string o' my hades broke, and I was forced to stop to mend it jist behind that big bush o' furze. A poor cratur like me can't afford to be

Page 27

buying bades every day. So, my dear—all accident (for I scorn a listener), I hard what she said—'she loved no one for marriage,' True for her; they talk a grate dale of her sinse ; but it's poor sinse to go look for the snow that fell last winter. I'll tell ye what, as a dead sacret:—she loved the ground that her cousin walked on, more than all the gould that ever was in, or ever came out o' Indy. And she loves him still; ay, ye needn't look so strange ; she loves him, but nothin' improper—I know that girl's heart as well as if I was inside of her—'tis of the sort that doesn't stain, or spot; and now you'll see, her de­light '11 he to tache his wife all the ould mistress's quare ways. And thin, whin she'll have made pace entirely among 'em, she'll stale oif, like the mist up the mountain ; and work (and well she knows how) for his sake that doesn't know she loves him. It's mighty fine to be so romantical all for pure love. God help us, poor women, we're all tinder! It was the way wid me, whin my bachelor died—rest his sowl!—arid that's the rason I'm a poor lone body now. Sure I sould the pig my mother left me, to pay the clargy, to get his sowl out o' purgatory ; and wasn't it well for him to have it to depind on ?" Harry, heedless of Peggy's pathetic application of the apron to her eyes, turned towards his own home, <( revolving sweet and bitter thoughts." There is a delight imparted to every unsophisticated heart, by the contemplation of a noble or a virtuous action, that nothing else can give ; and Harry's generous mind at once acknowledged Lilly's virtues : loving at first without knowing it; feeling it unrequited; and yet resolved to benefit its object to the sacrifice of every personal convenience and prospect in life.

The next day Edward and his bride arrived at the cottage. Mrs. Cassidy, in compliance with her oath, received them kindly. The mother's heart yearned towards her son ; but poor Lucy saw the old woman entertained a strong pre­judice against her.

The " kindly welcome," that murmured from Lilly's lips, sounded sweetly on the young stranger's ears; and, as fatigue compelled her to go to bed almost immediately, Lilly's gentle attentions were very delightful. The kind girl had displayed much taste and care in arranging their small sleeping room. Every article she could spare from her own chamber was added to its furniture. And when Lucy saw everything so clean and comfortable, she expressed both sur­prise and pleasure.

It was impossible not to love Lucy, when you looked at her; but it was somewhat doubtful if that sentiment would continue when you knew her. Her eyes were black, quick, and quite as likely to sparkle with anger as with pleasure. She was very petite, lively, thoughtless, and possessed precisely those acquirements that were useless in an Irish cottage. The daughter of a grocer in Plymouth, she had seen, fallen in love, ran away with, and married Edward in the short space of three weeks; and had not yet numbered sixteen years. Her youth pleaded strongly in her favour : but her extreme giddiness kept Lilly, the sweet, the patient Lilly, perpetually on the watch, lest she

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might do something to annoy her mother-in-law. It is true she quilled Mrs. Cassidy's caps in so new and bewitching a style that everybody said Lucy made the good lady look ten years younger. She washed her old mode cloak in some stuff, of which whiskey and beer were the principal ingredients, and made it appear, to the astonishment of the whole parish, " bran new." Then she trimmed bonnets—one yard and a half of riband, managed by her, went as far as three and a quarter ('tis an absolute fact) with anybody else. She could work natural flowers upon gauze, and embroider the corners of pocket handkerchiefs. She could even get up fine linen i but she could neither spin flax or wool, card, or milk, or churn, or cram fowl, or make butter, or a shirt or shift of any description: the worst of all was, she said, unfortunately, that she was certain no Christian body could eat bread made from the flour that was pounded out by those dirty stories ; thus bringing Mrs. Cassidy's invalu­able quern into contempt. Then it was quite impossible to keep her quiet; everything excited her risibility. One day, in particular, when the turkey-cock, affronted at Mrs. Cassidy's scarlet petticoat, which outvied his own red neck, picked unmercifully at her legs, Lucy only laughed, and never went to the rescue, which induced the old lady to say, that " Ned pretended to bring home a wife, but had only brought home a doll."

Lilly might be well called her guardian angel: when, like a school girl, she scampered over the fields, gathering flowers, or hunting every cock, hen, and chicken, over the potatoe ridges, Lilly followed to prevent her over-fatiguing herself, and to assist her home ; then she would instruct her how to please her mother-in-law; and, if Mrs. Cassidy complained, Lilly had always some remark to soften down what was said. Her general apology was—" She's so young, but she'll soon be a mother, and thin she'll get sense."

" I wonder Ned did not fall in love with you, Lilly," said Lucy, one day; " I'm sure you'd have made a better wife for him than ever I shall!" How poor Lilly blushed, and then turned pale ; but Lucy heeded it not. " How industrious Ned grows!—well, they would not believe, in Plymouth, that he'd ever settle down into a farmer, but I'm sure he works in the fields from morn­ing till night."

" People who are not rich must work, Lucy."

" Now, Lilly, that's a hit at me, who let you do everything; but do not look so angry with me, dearest Lilly; I beg pardon, you never hit at anybody. Oh ! you are not like an Irishwoman!"

" Oh, Lucy, dear t—don't be after talking that way o' the country, afore my aunt, for it hurts her ; and ye must remimber how much she's thought of in the parish."

" Well, there, I'll be good as gold—there;" and she sat down to work at some caps for a little stranger that was expected soon.

Edward was very affectionate to his young wife, although her heedlessness often annoyed him ; but when he gazed on her fairy-like beauty, he forgave it.

Page 29

The Protestant church was too far for her to walk ; she would not go to mass, and her husband loved her too well to permit her to be teazed on the subject. Her mother-in-law, and even Lilly, were grieved at this, and lamented that she thought so little about serious things ; however, Mrs. Cassidy always reconciled it to herself, by saying, " Niver mind, she'll be all the asier brought round to the right way, by-and-by." But, of all the amusements in which the thoughtless creature delighted, nothing pleased her so much as boating; if she could even get into a boat by herself, she would paddle it round the creeks, and into the bays, which in some places are overhung by scowling rocks, where the sea-birds nestle in safety.

" The potatoes are almost done, by their bubbling, I suppose, Lilly," said she, one day, " so I'll go and meet Ned as he comes up from the plough, and we shall be just in time for dinner;" and away she tripped, singing as blithely as a lark.

" She has a light heart," thought Lilly; " and why not ?—mine is not as heavy as it used to be: well, thank God, it does make people happy to do their duty;" and she assisted the little serving-girl in arranging all things in their kitchen—a task soon performed; the potatoes, laughing and smoking, were poured out on a clean, home-bleached cloth, and the white noggins frothed with fresh buttermilk of Lilly's own churning. Something prepared with extra care, for the delicate Englishwoman, was covered between two delf plates at the fire, and Mrs. Cassidy stood watching at the door, her hand lifted to her eyes, to shade them from the noon-day sun, while Lilly mixed some gooseberry wine with water and sugar for Lucy.

" Lilly, didn't ye say that Lucy went to meet Ned ?"

" Yes, aunt."

" Well, here's Ned at the gate almost, and no sign o' Lucy."

" That's mighty strange," replied Lilly, advancing; " Ned, where's Lucy ?"

" At her dinner, I suppose."

" Now, don't be so foolish, I'm sure she met ye."

" She did not, indeed, and I was longing to see her."

" It is some of her childish tricks," said Mrs. Cassidy.

" Her dinner '11 be stone could, though," said Lilly, looking out; " so I'll jist go see if I can meet her, and sit ye all down, or the pratees '11 not be fit to ate;" and she issued forth without further parley.

Ned did not sit down, although his mother urged him. " Her dinner has nothin' to do with yours, Ned; sure Lilly has something nice under the plate for her. No sign of her yet," she continued, after a pause; " sure she wouldn't be so foolish as to go to Tim Lavery's boat, for a bit of a spree; I caught her in it reading yesterday, but it was anchored safe, sure enough."

Ned made no reply, but followed the footsteps of his cousin; the field he had been ploughing was very near the beach; he hastily gained it, and his horror and dismay can be better conceived than expressed, when, gaming the

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cliff, the first object he beheld was Lilly, half in and half out of the water, dragging to shore the apparently lifeless body of his wife. When Lilly left the cottage, she first looked behind the large furze and hawthorn bushes near the field, and then the boat occurred to her ; she sped to the sea, and saw it in shallow water, but upset, with Lucy clinging to the stern, faint and exhausted. To plunge into the water and bring her to land, was the work but of a moment, and done before Edward could descend the cliffs.

The thoughtless creature was soon conveyed home. Her nerves were quite shattered 5 she clung closely to Lilly's bosom, like a frightened child, and did not even return her husband's caresses. She was hardly laid on her bed, when shrieks of agony succeeded the half-murmured words and sobbings of terror; and, after long and painful suffering, the being, who, not many hours before, had bounded in the full light and life of early youth, gave premature birth to a living child, and then yielded up her own existence. It was very sorrowful to mark the merry eyes closed for ever beneath their alabaster lids, and the long black lashes resting on her colourless cheeks.

Then came a long and loud debate between the Protestant and Catholic priests, as to who was to perform the last rites ; as if the spirit's happiness de­pended on man's words repeated over inanimate clay. The widower roused himself from the lethargy that succeeds the first rush of impetuous grief, and said calmly, but firmly—" Plase your reverences, I'm a Catholic, and ever was and will be; but she that's gone from me was born a Protestant—married a Protestant—and, as she died one, so shall she be buried, and that's enough; and what's more, I promised her, when I didn't think that death and desolation would come at this time, that if the child was a girl it should go wid her, if a boy, wid me. Now, gentlemen, I'm. not a lamed man, but my mind is, that a promise, to the dead or the living, is holy and firm in its natur'; and so, as I promised, it shall be. I couldn't look upon the babby's face for a king's ransom, nor do I know whether it be boy or girl; mother, say what is it ?"

" A girl," replied Mrs. Cassidy.

" Well, may-be more betther; may-be you'd just baptize it, Mr. Barlow, and Lilly and my mother '11 stand for it; as my notion is it can't live—and why should it ?"

But the little Lucy did live—thanks to Lilly's fostering care ; and so fragile a thing it was, that even a rough kiss might have killed it. A nurse was im­mediately procured, and Lilly had the satisfaction of seeing all Mrs. Cassidy's solicitude directed towards the infant; nay, she almost forgot the quern, and the only danger was, that the child would be destroyed by kindness. There was, however, to Lilly's delicate mind, something most improper in her remaining in the same house with her cousin. He was again free; al­though she hoped that he did not suspect her love, yet he knew of his mother's old plan; he had once, in anger, reproached her as being accessary

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to it; and Lilly decided on leaving our village. Edward, since sorrow had laid her hand on him, was an altered man, and Mrs. Cassidy was en­joying a- vigorous old age : so she could leave her, assured of happiness. It was a hitter trial to forsake her little godchild, yet she felt she owed a duty to herself. Mr. Herriott's family were again about to visit Dublin, and, without imparting her plan to any one, she offered her services to Miss Herriott. They were joyfully accepted; not without many expressions of wonder, that "the Bannow Lilly," the flower of the whole country side, should leave a spot where she was so much beloved. Lilly pleaded a wish for improvement, and finally arranged to set off with Miss Herriott in three days. As she returned she heard Peggy's loud voice, singing her old favourite, "The Colleen Rue," just as she got to her favourite stanza—

" I ranged through Asia—likewise Arabia, Through
Penselvanie, a seeking for you ;
Through the burning region of the siege of Paris,"—
when she espied Lilly in her decent mourning habit.

" The blessing be about ye, my precious!—and may-be ye'd tell us where ye've been. Sorra a bit o' news going now for a poor body."

" I've been up to Mrs. Herriott's, Peggy."

" Och ! they're going to Dublin, all the way, on Tuesday. Sure that '11 be the black journey for the poor. You needn't care, Miss Lilly; sure you've full and plinty, and an own fireside."

" I'm going as own maid with Miss Herriott, Peggy;—there's a small taste of news for yer comfort," continued Lilly, smiling—“ and more, betokens, you've the first of it, for I've not tould my aunt yet."

" You going ? Och, oh, oh!—don't be making yer fun of us after that fashion; we know betther nor that."

" It's quite true, for all ye may think, and so God be wid ye, Peggy! You and poor Coal will often cross my mind when I'm alone among strangers."

" Arrah, now, stop!—sure ye can't be in arnist. Sure there's not a living sowl in the parish but says you'll be married to Ned now; and at St. Pathrick's sure I hard 'em talking about it; and how Harry Connor's priested; sure he's Father Harry, for your sake."

" Peggy, I take shame to myself for barkening to your palaver for a moment; dacent talk ye have, and the young grass not green on her grave yet! Once more I say, God be wid ye." I have done right, thought she, but I shall not be able to make my dear aunt think so.

Poor Mrs. Cassidy scolded and cried with might and main; and Ned remonstrated, and even said that he took it very unkind of her to leave them, and, above all, the little thing, whose life she had saved. But Lilly was firm, arid departed amid the reproaches and tears of her aunt, and the heartfelt regret of her neighbours.

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How very irksome were her employments !—how did she shrink from the rude gaze of gentlemen and gentlemen's gentlemen, who, astonished at her full-blown beauty, paid homage by staring her out of countenance; and how often did she long for the quiet of the lowly cottage in the isolated village of Bannow! At first she imagined that city people must be very superior to country ones. But she soon grew tired of the pert flippancy and foolish airs of the servants whom she met; and, by Miss Herriott's permission, retired, when unoccupied, to the solitude of her kind lady's dressing-room. She received letters once a month, generally, from her cousin. The two first, in addition to the necessary information, anxiously entreated her return, but latterly (for the stay of the family was prolonged, owing to Mrs. Herriott's illness) the subject was never mentioned; and the bitter feeling, that there no longer existed any one to love her, weighed heavily on her, heart. Sixteen months had elapsed since Lucy's death; and Edward ever spoke of his child with all a father's fondness. Lilly longed to see it, but she had resolved on never again living with her aunt—and she remained firm to her resolution.

She had been dressing her young lady one morning, when, passing down stairs, the footman said—" There's one in the housekeeper's room that wants ye." She hardly entered when she was almost suffocated by the embraces of Mrs. Cassidy; and then she had to encounter the respectful but affectionate greetings of her cousin. Her aunt earnestly looked at her, would not sit down, but said—" Now, my darlint Lilly, it is much ye ought to thank me for this journey—in my ould age to take to the road agin; but ye see the rason is, that Ned is tired o' being bachelor, and he's going to change his condition, and jist wants to ax your advice and consint." " Mine!"

" Now, mother dear, don't be mumming," said Ned: " Lilly, I come to ax ye to accept the hand of one who is unworthy to be yer husband, but yet would die to make you happy. Lilly, don't cast me off—for my mother's sake —for. my own—for this one's sake;" and he took from the arms of our old friend, Peggy the Fisher, a smiling, black-eyed little creature, who almost instantly nestled its curly pate in Lilly's bosom. " Sure ye can make us all happy, if ye like; and we'll be all in quiet Bannow agen. Say, Lilly! Oh, don't look so could on me!"

" Will ye hould your whisht, Ned !" interrupted Peggy; " if ever I see'd anybody trated in that mismannerly fashion! Can't ye see wid half an eye that the cratur's as good as fainted, ye omathawn! No wonder, and ye both bellowering thegither. Ye don't know how to make a dacent proposhal; ye've frightened the grawl betwixt ye—whisht, honey, whisht! (to the child) — there's a woman!—ay—come to your own Peggy, that hushowed ye oftin; and will agin, by the blessin' o' God."

Lilly, literally unable to stand, sank into the housekeeper's chair. Edward knelt at her side; and his mother, holding one of her hands to her heart,

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looked earnestly on her face, while Peggy, "hushowing" the child, was not an uninterested spectator.

" God knows," said the young woman, after a little time, " I did not expect this. Aunt, when I had no father to protect me—no mother to feel for me— you did both; you shared with me what you had; and, oh I what was more than all—while I ate o' yer bread, arid drank o' yer cup, ye never made me feel that it was not my father's roof that shelthered me. Ned, we grew toge­ther, and you were to me as a born brother. But ye wronged me, Ned, that night; the first time (and God, that hears me, knows it), the first time I ever guessed rny aunt wished me to be nearer to her than her brother's child: that night, when, to prevint yer laving home, I proposed to quit for ever my only frind; when I did her bidding, an' followed ye through the moonlight, to bring ye back to yer poor ould mother, ye cast a black word in my face, and ye said that I—I, Lilly O'Brien—was leagued agin ye—and that I followed ye to get a husband." She covered her face with her hands, and faintly continued, " I have never forgotten it; I have prayed to do so. No one ever knew it, but Peggy; she overheard it. Oh! it weighed here, at the very bottom of my heart, and when I slept it was wid me; it—"

" Oh, Lilly, how can ye take on so!—sure it was the bad temper that did it, and I didn't mane it. And sure you've proved since that it's little truth was in it; sure ye've been more like an angel than anything else; arid sure when I ax yer pardon—"

" Stop, Ned, ye do now; but may-be, by an' by, ye might say the same thing agen; and if ye did it, and if we were married, I could never look up after!"

"Why, Lilly," said Mrs. Cassidy, " ye're making him out a fair black villain, after all yer goodness, to think he'd do the likes o' that—after yer coming over me, to take an oath to resave him and his, as my own, whin a word was only wanting to make me ban him for iver."

" And after her flying at me like a mad cat," echoed Peggy, " becase I gave her a bit of advice (for I was fairly bothered) to take care of a little pro­perty for herself."

" Ay, and all her attintion to the stranger," resumed Mrs. Cassidy.

" And her sinding him her own three pounds to bring him home," said peggy.

" How do you know that ?" inquired Lilly.

" Is it how I know it ? Why, thin, I'll jist tell ye. I knew yer aunt hadn't a tester in the house, becase she'd given me every pinny to exchange for gould, that she might pay her rint in it—not in dirty paper—to plase the landlord."

" Yer good deeds are all known, Lilly. Oh, let me say my Lilly; sure ye'll forgive yer cousin. How can I admire ye as I ought ?—don't shake yer '.cad, Lilly, dear—but—"

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The opening of the door prevented the conclusion of Edward's speech ; and Miss Harriott entered, her face radiant with satisfaction. " So, Lilly, I am to lose you; nay, do not talk, girl, I know you love him ; I knew it all along ; Peggy told me all about it, at the end of the shrubbery, the night before we left Bannow; and my dressmaker has made the wedding-dress, because Edward Cassidy wrote to me, and asked my opinion and consent; which was fitting; and I assured him you had not been flirting with any one, and invited him and my old friend up to Dublin; as to you, Peggy, I never expected you, but you are not less welcome."

" Why, I thank ye, Miss, my lady ; I jist came to see how ye all war, and to mind the child, and to look at the fine beautiful city, and the college, that bates the world for laming, as I have hard, and the ancient ould Parliament-house ; and thin go back, and give rest to my bones among my own people ; but I hope ye'll persuade Miss Lilly, my lady, for her own good ; sure they love each other—and what more's wanting for happiness ?"

" Ay, do, Miss, she'll, do yer bidding, may-be ; she's forgotten mine ;" and tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of Mrs. Cassidy.

" Not so," replied Miss Herriott; and taking Lilly's hand, she placed it in Edward's; " and now," continued the amiable girl, " kneel for the blessing that ascends to the throne of the Almighty, like a sweet-smelling savour—the blessing of an honest parent." They dropped on their knees, and Mrs, Cassidy pressed them to her satisfied heart.

" And sure that's as good as a play," blubbered Peggy.

" Well, Peggy, you shall see a play if you please, to-morrow evening ; but first I invite you to Lilly's wedding, which will take place to-morrow at four o'clock, in our great drawing-room, agreeably to the forms of the Catholic church, by a Catholic priest. Nay, Lilly, it is the last time I shall ever com­mand you; so I bid you all farewell for the present." And the good, and kind, and generous young lady left them to their "own company;" which, it is scarcely necessary for me to say, was not very doleful or wretched; for although the heart of one of the party was too full for words, ample amends was made for her silence by the ever talkative Peggy.

At three quarters of an hour past three (I love to be exact in these matters), Miss Herriott inspected her company in the back drawing-room. The arrangements for the ceremony highly amused her; first, Mrs. Cassidy, in an open rose-coloured poplin dress, as stiff as buckram, with tight sleeves reaching to the elbows, where they were met by white mittens, that had been the gift of Miss Herriott's grandmother, and which the old lady prized so highly that they had only twice seen the light in twenty years; a blue satin quilted petticoat, ditto, ditto ; a white muslin apron, flounced all round; high-heeled shoes, with massy silver buckles; a clear kerchief, pinned in the fashion that used to be called " pigeon's craw," and a high-cauled cap, trimmed with' rich lace, completed her costume. Peggy sported a large flowered chintz,

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whereon pink parrots, yellow goldfinches, and bunches of roses bigger than either goldfinch or parrot, clustered together in open defiance of nature and the arts; this was made after Mrs. Cassidy's pattern, and displayed to advan­tage a pea-green English stuff petticoat, quilted in diamonds. There was little variation from Mrs. Cassidy's fashion in the other et ceteras, except that Peggy wore a flaming yellow silk shawl, with a blue border; that, to use her own expression, " matched everything."

Lilly looked beautiful—most beautiful. Miss Herriott dressed her as she pleased ; in white—pure white ; would not permit her to wear a cap, but let her hair curl after its own fashion, only confining it with a wreath of lilies of the valley.

There is no use in describing Edward's dress; all bridegrooms, I believe, wear blue coats with yellow buttons and white waistcoats. The little Lucy had a clean white frock, and a lobster's claw to keep her quiet.

Oh! what a happy group of humble people were assembled in that gay drawing-room! Mrs. Cassidy—the desire of her heart gratified, the hope of years realized, the fervent and continual prayer answered—Mrs. Cassidy was, beyond doubt, the happiest of them all, as she sat, with her cheerful and grateful face, contemplating her " two children."

" Ye're both too handsome and too good for me," whispered Ned, as he conducted Lilly to the great drawing-room, closely followed by her con­descending bridemaid. Lilly courtesied as she entered, but did not look off the ground until an exclamation of surprise, from the bridegroom, roused her attention, and she saw—Harry Connor!—Father Harry!—ready to perform the marriage ceremony.

" It is even your old friend," said he, advancing: l( Mr. Herriott, at my request, consented to my surprising you. Ned, when I give you this girl as your wife, I give you one whom no earthly feeling could tempt from the path of strict honour. She told me once that her hand should never go without her heart, and your being together proves you have it; a blessing will she be to thee, my early friend." A single tear glistened on his cheek as he pronounced the words that made them husband and wife:—it was a tear of which a seraph might not have been ashamed.

Four years have passed since that happy marriage; and can you not tell who—seeking to abstract herself from household cares and blessings, only that she may render grateful homage to her Creator—sits, after evening vespers, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, her national hood shading, but not obscuring, the beauty of her pensive face, near yonder cottage, that looks so joyously in the setting sun which sheds such glorious light over the ocean, that reflects every passing cloud upon its calm, clear bosom ? See her again, within the porch of her dwelling, where the flowers are blossoming;

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and where she has other blossoms than the flowers give. She is approaching the bloom of womanhood; yet grace is in all her movements. Her kerchief is carefully pinned across her bosom, and two or three rich auburn tresses that obstinately come forth, and will not be confined by the neat cap of snowy whiteness, move in the passing breeze;—that dark-eyed and dark-haired little girl, buoyant and animated, cannot be her child : yet it clings to her neck, and calls her " mother." There—the honest farmer, returning from his toil, is met by two almost infant prattlers; the youngest a perfect specimen of childish helplessness and beauty;—and, peering from the window, is the hardly altered face of—Mrs. Cassidy.

Oh, that voice !—it is Peggy's—old Peggy—as she is still called, " Peggy the Fisher." She has " a good penny o' money of her own," and sometimes visits around the neighbourhood; but she is so strongly attached to the family to whom the cottage belongs, that she almost resides there.

" Och, ye craturs, like fairy things, come in to the tay!—sure it's not fit for the likes o' ye to be muddling in the grass, even after y'er daddy, ye born blossoms !—ye bames o' joy!—ye comforts o' the ould 'ooman's heart! Come, all o' ye, to your own Peggy. Och ! 'tis myself must set about, fair and asy, to make my sowl, and not be passing my time, like the flowers in May, wid the young blossoms of the bannow lilly."

---

MARY RYAN'S DAUGHTER.

" I had the greatest mind in the world to ask her how she had the impu­dence to wear a bright goold ring on her wedding finger, as if she was an honest woman !" said another.

"And she asking with such mock modesty for a drink of water! I wonder how she relishes water after the fine wines she got used to," suggested a third.

" It was for all the world like a story written in a book," observed the first speaker; " how she left the Uphill farm (as good as seven years, come Easter), and no one ever knew exactly who she left it with—only guessing that it must be one of the sporting squireens, that thronged the country about that time. Since the ould gentleman at the Hall died, and the place was pulled down, we have none of the kind going."

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"Small loss," was the reply ; " they were only good at divarshin — for themselves I mean ; there was 110 use in them at all at all, for others,"

" Did you see how white her hands were ?" remarked another. " Well, I expect there will be murder of some sort done — for her father will never own her — and it's little she thinks there's a new mother to meet her. I hadn't the heart to tell her her own was dead ! — bad as she is."

" Bad as who is?" exclaimed a clear, but aged voice. " Who is bad, girls, agra? It's a comfort to hear of bad people, so it is ; it makes one say — ' Well, the saints be praised, I'm not as bad as that, any how.' "

" Oh, Daddy Denny, is it yourself that's in it ? Oh, thin, that's luck I" they exclaimed together. " Think of that, now — and we never to see you coming, daddy, honey !"

"How could you see me coming," replied the stout beggarman, "when your backs were to me ?"

" And that's true, Denny, dear ! — but look, daddy, what do you see going up the hill?"

" Ay, wisha ! — how do I know ? — sure I'm sand blind, any way."

" Don't bother us — your eye's as clear as a kitling's — who do you think it is?"

," A woman, dear."

" Sure we know that — what else ?"

"A child, my darling."

" What news you tell us — but who's the woman, and who's the child ?"

" Ah, then, is it a witch ye think me ? How can I tell ?"

" Do you know Mister Phill Ryan, of the Uphill farm ?"

" Do 1 know my right hand ?"

" Did you know his wife ?"

" The Lord be good to her ! — Is it know her ? — the holy saints make her bed in heaven ! — I never say a prayer for myself without bringing her into It. Oh, she was the darling, with the open hand : there's few like her now by the road side."

"We daddy, and you knew her daughter."

" I did," replied the old man, with visible emotion; " I did — the poor darling — I did, God help me ! she's heavier on my heart, this many a day, than all my sins — I often drame of her. Oh, Mary Ryan, dear, I wish you were as hear all hearts as you are to mine !"

"She may be near enough to you, then, any time you like, for the future," relied one of the women, " for there she goes."

"Wherey where?" inquired the beggar, eagerly : "Oh, as you hope for merey, tell me where !"

"She’s out of sight now," answered the first speaker; " but it was her you saw going up the hill."

" And did none of you tell her that her mother was dead ?" inquired Denny.

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" Why, then, what's come to you, daddy ?" said the eldest: " my father would go mad if he thought we spoke to her."

" He'd do no such thing—he'd go with her himself sooner than she should go alone. Ah, girls! girls ! one woman should never lean heavy on another: we should lave judgment to God, my darlings, and mind mercy, for we all want it, girls." The old man grasped his stick more firmly in his bony hand, and wiping the dew from his brow, which fatigue and emotion had brought there, he proceeded rapidly up the hill.

" Stop, daddy, stop, and have something to eat:—sure, the meal father promised you is ready—and you said you'd bring us word of Ellen Mullins's wedding, and what she'd on, and all."

" The next time, the next time," answered the old man, without turning back.

" And there's a drop of something in the black bottle," shouted another.

" Well I" exclaimed Stacey, the eldest of the sisters, " that bates all: I never knew daddy refuse the bit and the sup before ! Mary Ryan always had the way of bewitching the men, though, to be sure, now she's both old and ugly." " She's just your age," said Rose, the youngest girl.

" How do you know that?" was the query.

" Father said so."

" Father knows nothing about it," retorted the offended elder; but I must leave them to settle a question the most difficult to determine among either women or men, and proceed with my story. It is already known that Mary Ryan had left her father's house—but no one knew with whom—that she was returning with a child of her own, and ignorant of the fact that her mother was dead, and her father again married, and that there existed, at all events, one human being who felt interested in her fate—although he was only old Dennis, commonly called " Daddy Denny"—as notorious a beggarman as ever importuned upon the Irish highway. Daddy Denny had as many acquaintances in Waterford as Reginald's Tower, and in Wexford, as the Bridge ; but he only visited towns occasionally, loving better the by-roads, gentlemen's kitchens, and comfortable farm-houses of Wexford and Wicklow— feeling a particular interest in shipwrecks, and the waifs and strays appertain­ing thereunto ; having an active mind and an active body, as far as walking was concerned; being a devout beadsman, a good story-teller, and well read in the domestic history of every house in what he called his three native counties—-Waterford, Wexford, and Wicklow. His bold spirit, and reputation for sanctity, gave him an ascendancy over the poorer class, and his quaint good-humour caused him to be more than tolerated by the farmers and gentry.

" It's lead that's in my brogues this blessed day !" he said, aloud, as he mended his pace. " Holy Mary, speed me ! Ah, yah, yah ! I never think I'm growing old, barring when I have something good to do in a hurry—the poor

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girleen!—she little knows what I know;" and on he trudged, heartily and hastily, muttering every now and then, according to his custom, about what he thought, and praying for what he desired. Having reached the top of the hill which had been already climbed by Mary Ryan—for it was one of those small perpendicular ascents that are so common in the county of Wicklow—Daddy Denny saw, at a glance (notwithstanding his being " sand blind"), what was passing at the Uphill farm, which lay a very little to his left; indeed, if he had not seen, his attention would have been arrested by the voice of a woman in. loud anger. A group of young alder trees overshadowed the dwelling, which partook more of the nature of a farm than a cabin: against one of these, which. had been planted by her father at her birth, Mary Ryan—unable to support herself, was leaning, in hopeless anguish—uttering no word, shedding no tear— but listening, with opened eyes and gasping lips, to the vehement abuse poured upon her by her father's wife. Her child, a pallid, weary-looking little girl, of about six years old, was clinging to her dress, and her own younger sister— a woman in appearance, yet cowed into subjection by her step-mother—was standing half in, half out of, the door, not knowing how to act. Mrs. Ryan was one of a class by no means rare, who imagine that their own virtue is best evinced by condemning, with the utmost violence, every woman who has suffered under the supposition of swerving from the right path. She had known Mary in girlhood; she knew how beloved she had been by the mother to whom she had succeeded; she saw her changed, faded, and in despair ; but, notwithstanding all this, the harsh tones of her voice mingled with the balmy breezes of a May evening:—

" Go" back from where you came—Father, Moyra! deed, an it's himself that's in fine health, Lord be praised!—dacent man—and has enough to do to provide for dacent, well-behaved children, without having shame, and shame's daughter, to pick the potatoes God sends ; for—oh, you brazen face!— take yer brat to yer mother's grave, and cry there !" Here Mary's sister inter­posed, but Daddy Denny could not hear the words. " If you touch her, or go near her, you shan't stay here, depend upon that 1" exclaimed Mrs. Ryan. " I'm yer father's wife, and I'll have none like her to curse our house;—if we're poor we're honest, not like other people."

" And who says she's not honest ?" said the stout beggarman, interposing his portly person between Mrs. Ryan and the almost unconscious Mary.— " Who dares to say it ? Fetch yer sister a drink of wather, to bring her to herself, Anty, this minute. I'm ashamed of yez all, so I am; I never heard tell of the like before, in my own three counties! Setting a case, she had been deluded—to shame I mean—did you never see a holy picture about a prodigal's return ? Why, Mrs. Ryan, the print of it is hanging against yer own wall, the father houlding out his arms, and the calf—red and white, and fat—standing ready for killing ; and yet ye see the craythur dying upon these stones, and don't lift her up! Ah, yah! Mary, mavourneen, asthore, a

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machree! ye've supped sorrow sure enough, a lannan; but I know my own, know, a'coushla: and I tell you," he continued, while, kneeling by Mary's side, lie supported her on his arm—" I tell you, and call the Almighty, the blessed Virgin, and all the holy saints of heaven, to witness that she who rests on me now, in a dead faint—I tell you all—that, though foolish in what she did, she's freer from sin than e'er a one here, barring her own child—don't cry, my pet, your mammy's only in a faint, my bird. Here !"—he continued, as the farmer himself, unconscious of what was going on, leaped heavily over the ditch— " here! look here, sir, if you plaze; and may the Almighty, that stands the innocent's frind, turn yer heart to yer own flesh and blood !"

James Ryan walked to where his daughter was still supported by Dennis— his wife hung back, for she did not quite like to encounter the beggarman's eloquence, which was to the full as energetic as her own, when excited. Mary Ryan was very like her mother; and lying pale and speechless—without sense or motion—the resemblance to her parent on her death-bed appealed so power­fully to his feelings, that he raised her in his arms, calling upon Dennis to account for her appearance.

"I wonder at you, James!" said the wife; "don't you see it's Mary, whom you often swore should never break the daylight at your door? I won­der at you, Denny, to be taking advantage of the poor man's softness and inno­cence ! Get up, James; don't be demaning yourself to the like of her, before your honest wife and children."

James Ryan looked bewildered ; but, as he collected his scattered thoughts, his horror of his daughter's sin overpowered every other feeling.

" And that's true," he said ; " yet she's so like her mother—but it's true, for all that. She left us of her own accord ; and the mother that bore her could find no place but the grave to hide her sorrow in. She broke the heart of her own mother ; and, poor as I am, she was the first that ever brought shame on her name."

" Corne away, come away, James," whispered her step-mother;—"come away, and don't be letting yourself down with thinking of her."

"Let me alone, woman!" he exclaimed, rudely shaking off her hand:— " let me alone, and do not turn your tongue on her—mind that. Go in, chil­dren ; I swore she should never darken my door ; and she never shall!" He rose up, and walked steadily towards his cottage; but, before he had time to enter it, the sturdy beggar interposed.

" Look here, James Ryan," he said; " I tell you what I told her, who, I trust to the Lord, is now in glory—I said to her, when that girl left your house, that sorrow would follow her, but not shame ;—I tell you, that she has never known a happy hour since ; but I tell you, besides, that she'll be righted jet; and that, though the sunshine of her life be gone, you'll be proud of her —all of you—proud of her, and proud of Mary Ryan's daughter. I tell you tins—Mrs. Ryan, ma'am—because I know you're of the sort that would give

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to get agin; and the time will come when you'll be glad, may-be, to pick her potatoes, and winnow her corn: and I tell it to you, Mister Ryan, because you're her father, and because the dread of her shame is just now stronger in you than your natural love—that's why I do it."

" Hear the big beggarman!" exclaimed Mrs. Ryan.

" Hearing is all one ever got by being a beggarman from you, anyway!" he answered, sharply ; "but it's the man of the house I'm speaking to; the father of her who lies there suffering from another's sin, and not sinning herself."

" You speak like a book, Mister Denny, but it's no good to you," said Mrs. Ryan; " don't look back at her, James, honey, though, sure enough, I wouldn't be where I am but for her ! If she hadn't broke her mother's heart, I'd never have been so happy as to be your wife." Whether or not this artful piece of feminine flattery succeeded, I cannot tell, but certainly James preceded his wife into the house, and she shut the door, pulling the latch-string inside, to prevent it being opened.

" What'll I do with her at all!" soliloquized Denny, while surveying Mary Ryan and her daughter—"the foolish ould nagur, to be led that way by his young slut of a wife. She may have years of trial still, God help her! And where will she shelter ? Rouse yerself, Mary, my own ould heart's darlint!— rouse yerself. "What's that you say ?—that you murdered your mother, jewel? Faix, no, 'twas the will of God, avourneen—nothing passes his holy will— rouse, darling, and see if ould Daddy Dinny can't find you a night's lodging somewhere. Oh, the hearts of some fathers—and sisters too—to see how that young clip of a sister deserted her like the rest! Where will I take her too ? I know," he said, after giving his head one of those earnest scratches which seem mysteriously to revive the Irish intellect—"I know!—ould Jenny Harper, the barony Forth woman, whose husband was killed in the mines, has a sore heart still, and that makes a feeling one."

And the daddy fussed and talked, and, at last, succeeded in rousing poor Mary into a flood of tears, while her child kept entreating her not to cry. Still the broken-hearted creature sat before her father's closed door, moaning—" If he would only forgive me—only forgive me!" The night dews fell, and the moon rose; and, at last, the kind-hearted beggar persuaded her to accompany him to a cabin hard by, where she'd be sure of shelter. Silence not being one of his qualities, he muttered and jabbered all the way, like most great talkers, expecting no reply; and so busy was he with his own thoughts and opinions, that he did not hear the light foot of Anty Ryan, who flung her arms round her sister's neck, and was sobbing on her bosom. "Mary! it's your little sister that I am, and dare not speak to you before her—your dawsJiy Anty, agra!—don't take on too much about our mother ; it was an inward complaint she nad for ever so long: and sure, before the breath was out of her, she prayed for you with all hef heart and soul—yes, she forgave you."

"But she thought me guilty ?" inquired the poor creature, breathlessly.

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" She forgave you, sister—I have no more to say ; but here, don't be cast down—here's a thrifle I saved—and that saving doesn't often trouble me—but I did save a few shillings, just for something—but I'd rather give it to you, my poor Mary; it's all I have. Well, if you won't have it, the child, God help it, will! I'm your aunt, honey ; and, while you're Mary Ryan's daughter, I'll love you, my poor innocent baby :—there, God be with you! Daddy will tell me where you'll be. I must run back, for I pulled the loose stones from where the window's to be, to get out."

"Why, then, that's right!" exclaimed Denny; " and a good husband and soon to you, my brave hearty girl! That's the rale sort, mother's own child— success—and cross of Christ about us ! that nothing may cross yer path worse than a beam of the May moon."

Mary Ryan and her daughter were, within an hour from that time, esta­blished, quite to Daddy Denny's satisfaction, in the cabin of the Widow Harper, a miserable dwelling composed of turf and loose stones, and consisting only of one room,, but she had not forgotten the neat habits of her childhood; and, small and poor as it was, the floor was even and well swept; the chimney did not smoke ; and the bed of dried heather was raised from the floor by some long boards, and covered by a patch quilt. The old woman showed every atten­tion to her guests, boiled them some potatoes for supper, and afterwards bathing their feet in the potatoe water—taking care to throw it out when done with, that it might not be converted to any improper use by the fairies, who, it is said, have a great fancy for floating boats upon bath-water, and thereby sorely bewildering the imaginations of those who sleep, either in a cabin or a palace.

Denny betook himself to a neighbour's barn, as was his custom; and, when he reappeared in the morning, he found poor Mary Ryan suffering from the rapid approach of fever.

" I well know the sickness that's coming over her," said the widow; " and I'll tell you what, daddy, all I have to give her is the poor bed and the shelter —she's welcome to that—and I'll take a turn among my husband's people for a couple of weeks; I'll bring her little girl with me, if she'll come; and the neighbours won't let her want a mouthful through the window, quite convay-nent. I can't stay within a mile of a fever myself, on account of a promise I made my mother—and she on her death-bed—never to do so; so that's all I can say, except may the Lord forgive unnatural relations 1" The widow strove to prevail on the child to accompany her, but in vain; the little creature clung to her mother, importuning her with questions of when would she go home, which she had not the power to answer.

" God be with you, Mrs. Harper, ma'am," exclaimed Denny; "you've done a Christian turn; and if there's virtue in prayers, you shall have them, dear— may-be I won't pepper away at them for your sake!" and the widow cheerfully gave up her dwelling to the outcast from her own father's house.

" The neighbours " did watch—as they always do ; and the beggarman

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po'sitively insisted upon having " a drop of wine, and a grain of tea," from the gentry, " for the sick woman, who had no one to look to her, only God, and the poor."

This was a common case enough, for, as I have often said, and am never tired of repeating, the Irish peasant is rich in the virtue of generosity ; but the care a