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THE STORY-TELLER.

TUBBER DERG;

OR, THE RED WELL.

On the south side of a sloping tract of light ground,

lively, warm, and productive, stood a white, moderate-sized
farm-house, which, in consequence of its conspicuous situa-
tion, was a prominent, and, we may add, a graceful object
in the landscape of which it formed a part.
The spot
whereon it stood was a swelling natural terrace, the soil of
which was heavier and richer than that of the adjoining
lands. On each side of the house stood a clump of old
beeches, the only survivors of that species then remaining

in the country. These beeches extended behind the house
ina kind of angle, with opening enough at their termina-
tion to form a vista, through which its white walls glis-
tened with beautiful effect in the calm splendour of a sum-
mer evening. Above the mound on which it stood, rose
two steep hills, overgrown with furze and fern, except on
their tops, which were clothed with purple heath; they
were also covered with patches of broom, and studded with

grey rocks, which sometimes rose singly or in larger masses,

I will not crave your pardon, gentle reader, for dwelling at such length upon a scene so dear to my heart as this, because I write not now so much for your gratification as my own. Many an eve of gentle May have I pul

led the May-gowans which grew about that well, and over

that smooth meadow.

Often have I raised my voice to its shrillest pitch, that I might hear its echoes rebounding in the bottom of the green and still glen, where silence, so

to speak, was deepened by the continuous murmur of the cascade above; and when the cuckoo uttered her first note

from among the hawthorns on its side, with what trem-
bling anxiety did I, an urchin of some eight or nine years,
look under my right foot, for the white hair, whose charm

was such, that by keeping it about me, the first female nam
I should hear was destined, I believed in my soul, to be
and mellow the whistle of the blackbird, as they rose in the
that of my future wife. Sweet was the song of the thrush,
stillness of the evening over the "birken shaws" and green
dells of this secluded spot of rural beauty. Far, too, could
and meadows, as, with a little chubby urchin at his knee,
the rich voice of Owen M'Carthy be heard along the hills
door, singing the "Trougha,” in his native Irish; whilst
and another in his arms, he sat on a bench beside his own
Kathleen his wife, with her two maids, each crooning a low
song, sat before the door, milking the cows, whose sweet
breath mingled its perfume with the warm breeze of even-
ing.

pointed or rounded into curious and fantastic shapes. Ex-
actly between these hills the sun went down during the
mouth of June, and nothing could be in finer relief than
the rocky and picturesque outlines of their sides, as, crown-
ed with thorns and clumps of wild ash, they appeared to
overhang the valley whose green foliage was gilded by the
sun-beams, which lit up the scene into radiant beauty.
The bottom of this natural chasm, which opened against
the deep crimson of the evening sky, was nearly upon a
level with the house, and completely so with the beeches that
surrounded it. Brightly did the sinking sun fall upon their
tops, whilst the neat white house below, in their quiet
shadow, sent up its wreath of smoke among their branches,
itself an emblem of contentment, industry, and innocence.
It was, in fact, a lovely situation; perhaps the brighter to
me, that its remembrance is associated with days of happi-high and stoical integrity for which they were remarkable.
ness and freedom from the cares of a world, which, like a
distant mountain, darkens as we approach it, and only
exhausts us in struggling to climb its rugged and barren
paths.

Owen M'Carthy was descended from a long line of honest ancestors, whose names had never, within the memory of man, been tarnished by the commission of a mean or disreputable action. They were always a kind-hearted family, but stern and proud in the common intercourse of life. They believed themselves to be, and probably were, a branch of the Mac Carthy More stock; and, although only the possessors of a small farm, it was singular to observe the effect which this conviction produced upon their bear

There was to the south-west of this house, another little hazel glen, that ended in a precipice formed by a single rock some thirty feet high, over which tumbled a crystal cascade into a basin, worn in its hard bed below. From this basin the stream murmured away through the copsewood, until it joined a larger rivulet that passed, with many a winding, through a fine extent of meadows adjoining it. Across the foot of this glen, and past the door of the house we have described, ran a bridle road, from time immemorial; on which, as the traveller ascended it towards the house, he appeared to track his way in blood, for a chalybeate spa arose at its head, oozing out of the earth, and spread itself in a crimson stream over the path in every spot whereon a footmark could be made. From this circumstance it was called Tubber Derg, or the Red Well. In the meadow where the glen terminated, was another spring of delicious crystal; and clearly do I remember the ever-beaten path-way that led to it through the grass, and up the green field which rose in a gentle slope to the happylooking house of Owen McCarthy, for so was the man called who resided under its peaceful roof.

ing and manners. To it might, perhaps, be attributed the

This severity, however, was no proof that they wanted

feeling, or were insensible to the misery or sorrows of others :

in all the little cares and perplexities that chequered the peaceful neighbourhood in which they lived, they were ever the first to console, or, if necessary, to support a distressed neighbour with the means which God had placed in their possession; for, being industrious, they were seldom poor. Their words were few, but sincere, and generally promised less than the honest hearts that dictated them intended to perform. There is in some persons a hereditary feeling of just principle, the result neither of education, nor of a clear moral sense, but rather a kind of instinctive honesty which descends, like a constitutional bias, from father to son, pervading every member of the family. It is difficult to define this, or to assign its due position in the scale of human virtues. It exists in the midst of the grossest ignorance, and influences the character in the absence of better principles. Such was the impress which marked so strongly the family of which I speak. No one would ever think of imputing a dishonest act to the McCarthys; nor would any person acquainted with them, hesitate for a moment to consider their word as good as the bond of another. I do not mean to say, however, that their motives of action were not higher than this instinctive honesty ; far from it but I say, that they possessed it in addition to a

:

strong feeling of family pride, and a correct knowledge of his garden was not now planted so early, nor with such

their moral duties.

I can only take up Owen M'Carthy at that part of the past to which my memory extends. He was then a tall, fine-looking young man; silent, but kind. One of the earliest events within my recollection is his wedding; after that the glimpse of his state and circumstances are imperfect; but, as I grew up, they became more connected, and I am able to remember him the father of four children; an

industrious, inoffensive, small farmer, beloved, respected, and honoured. No man could rise, be it ever so early, who would not find Owen up before him; no man could anticipate him in an early crop, and if a widow or a sick acquaintance were unable to get in their harvest, Owen was certain to collect the neighbours to assist them; to be the

first there himself, with quiet benevolence, encouraging them to a zealous performance of the friendly task in which they were engaged.

It was, I believe, soon after his marriage, that the lease of the farm held by him expired. Until that time he had been able to live with perfect independence; but even the enormous rise of one pound per acre, though it deprived him in a great degree of his usual comforts, did not sink him below the bare necessaries of life. For some years after that he could still serve a deserving neighbour; and never was the hand of Owen M'Carthy held back from the wants and distresses of those whom he knew to be honest.

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taste and neatness as before; his crops were later, and less abundant; his haggards neither so full nor so trim as they were wont to be, nor his ditches and enclosures kept in such good repair. His cars, ploughs, and other farming imb ments, instead of being put under cover, were left exposd to the influence of wind and weather, where they soon be came crazy and useless.

Such, however, were only the slighter symptoms of bish bootless struggle against the general embarrassment iato which the agricultural interests were,] year after year, so unhappily sinking.

Had the tendency to general distress among the class to which he belonged become stationary, Owen would have continued, by toil and incessant exertion, to maintain his ground; but, unfortunately, there was no point at which the national depression could then stop. Year after y produced deeper, more extensive, and more complicated misery; and when he hoped that every succeeding seas would bring an improvement in the market, he was destined to experience not merely a fresh disappointment, but an unexpected depreciation in the price of his corn, butter, and other disposable commodities.

When a nation is reduced to such a state, no eye but that of God himself can see the appalling wretchedness to which a year of disease and scarcity strikes down the poor and working classes.

Owen, after a long and noble contest for nearly three years, sank, at length, under the united calamities of dis ease and scarcity. The father of the family was laid low upon the bed of sickness, and those of his little ones who escaped it were almost consumed by famine. This two-fold shock sealed his ruin; his honest heart was crushed-bis hardy frame shorn of its strength, and he to whom every neighbour fled as to a friend, now required friendship when the wide-spread poverty of the country rendered its assist. ance hopeless.

On rising from his bed of sickness, the prospect before him required his utmost fortitude to bear. He was now wasted in energy both of mind and body, reduced to utter

Until the peace of 1814, Owen's regular and systematic industry enabled him to struggle successfully against a weighty rent and sudden depression in the price of agricultural produce; that is, he was able, by the unremitting toil of a man remarkable alike for an unbending spirit and a vigorous frame of body, to pay his rent with tolerable regularity. It is true, a change began to be visible in his personal appearance, in his farm, in the dress of his child-poverty, with a large family of children, too young to as ren, and in the economy of his househeld. Improvements which adequate capital would have enabled him to effect, were left either altogether unattempted, or in an imperfect state resembling neglect, though, in reality, the result of poverty. His dress at mass, and in fairs and markets, had,

sist him, without means of 'retrieving his circumstances, his wife and himself gaunt skeletons, his farm neglected, his house wrecked, and his offices falling to ruin, yet every day bringing the half-year's term nearer! Oh, ye who rio on the miseries of such men-ye who roll round the easy by degrees, lost that air of comfort and warmth which be- circle of fashionable life, think upon this picture! Ye vile speaks the independent farmer. The evidences of embar- and heartless landlords, who see not, hear not, know not rassment began to disclose themselves in many small points, those to whose heart-breaking toil ye owe the only merit inconsiderable, it is true, but not the less significant. His ye possess--that of rank in society-come and contemplate house, in the progress of his declining circumstances, ceased this virtuous man, as unfriended, unassisted, and uncheered to be annually ornamented by a new coat of whitewash; by those who are bound by a strong moral duty to protect it soon assumed a faded and yellowish hue, and sparkled and aid him, he looks shuddering into the dark cheerless not in the setting sun as in the days of Owen's prosperity. future! Is it to be wondered at that he, and such as he, It had, in fact, a wasted, unthriving look, like its master; should, in the misery of his despair, join the nightly meet the thatch became black and rotten upon its roof, the chimings, be lured to associate himself with the incendiary, or neys sloped to opposite points, the windows were less neat, seduced to grasp, in the stupid apathy of wretchedness, the and, ultimately, when broken, were patched with a couple weapon of the murderer? By neglecting the people, by of leaves from the children's blotted copy books. His outhouses also began to fail; the neatness of his little farm-yard,

and the cleanliness which marked so conspicuously the space fronting his dwelling-house, disappeared in the course of

time.

draining them, with merciless rapacity, of the means of life; by goading them on under a cruel system of rack rents, ye become not their natural benefactors, but curses and scourges, nearly as much in reality as ye are in their

Filth began to accumulate where no filth had been ; opinion.

When Owen rose, he was driven by hunger, direct and immediate, to sell his best cow; and having purchased some oatmeal at an enormous price, from a well-known devotee in the parish, who hoarded up this commodity for a" dear summer," he laid his plans for the future, with as much judgment as any man could display. One morning after breakfast he addressed his wife as follows:

acushla machree--but that's gone long ago-och, don't ax me to stop. Isn't your lightsome laugh, whin you wor young, in my ears? and your step that 'ud not bend the flower of the field-Kathleen, I can't, indeed I can't bear to think of what you wor, nor of what you are now, when, in the coorse of age and natur, but a small change ought to be upon you! Sure I ought to make every struggle to take you and these sorrowful crathurs out of the state you're in."

The children flocked about them, and joined their entreaties to those of their mother. "Father, don't lave us -we'll be lonesome if you go, and if my mother 'ud get unwell, who'd be to take care of her? Father, don't lave your own weeny crathurs,' (a pet name he had for them) maybe the meal 'ud be eat out before you'd come back ; or maybe something 'ud happen you in that strange place." "Indeed there's truth in what they say, Owen," said the

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«Kathleen, mavourneen, I want to consult wid you about what we ought to do; things are low wid us, asthore, and except our Heavenly Father puts it into the heart of thea I'm goin' to mention, I don't know what we'll do, ser what 'ill become of these poor crathurs that's naked and hungry about us. God pity them; they don't know-and maybe that same's some comfort-the hardships that's bef ore them. Poor crathurs, see how quiet and sorrowful they sit about their little play, passin' the time for themselves as well as they can! Alley, acushla machree, come over to me. Your hair is bright and fair, Alley, and curls so pur-wife: "do be said by your own Kathleen for this time, tily that the finest lady in the land might envy it, but, acushla, your colour's gone, your little hands are wasted away, too; that sickness was hard and sore upon you, a colleen machree, and he that 'ud spend his heart's blood for you, darlin', can do nothing to help you!"

He looked at the child as he spoke, and a slight motion

in the muscles of his face was barely perceptible; but it passed away, and, after kissing her, he proceeded :—

"Ay, ye crathurs-you and I, Kathleen, could earn our bread for ourselves yet, but these can't do it. This last stroke, darlin', has laid us at the door of both poverty and sickness, but blessed be the Mother of Heaven for it, they're

all left wid us; and sure that's a blessin' we've to be thankful for glory be to God!"

"Ay, poor things, it's well to have them spared, Owen dear sure I'd rather a thousand times beg from door to door, and have my childher to look at, than be in comfort widout them."

"Kathleen," said he, at length, "in the name of God I'll go; and may his blessin' be about you, asthore machree, and guard you and these darlins till I come back to yees." Kathleen's faithful heart could bear no more; she laid herself on his bosom-clung to his neck, and, as the parting kiss was given, she wept aloud, and Owen's tears fell silently down his worn cheeks. The children crowded about them in loud wailings; and the grief of this virtuous and afflicted family was of that profound description, which is ever the companion, in such scenes, of pure and genuine

love.

"Owen !" she exclaimed-" Owen, a-suilish mahuil agus machree! I doubt we wor wrong in thinkin' of this journey. How can you, mavourneen, walk all the way to Dublin, and you so worn aud weakly wid that sickness, and the bad feedin' both before and since? Och, give it up, achree, and stay wid us-let what will happen. You're not able for sich a journey, indeed you're not. Stay wid me and the childher, Owen; sure we'd be so lonesome widout you—will you, agrah? and the Lord will do for us some other way, maybe."

Owen pressed his faithful wife to his heart, and kissed her chaste lips with a tenderness which the heartless votaries of fashionable life can never know.

"Kathleen, asthore," he replied, in those terms of endearment which flow so tenderly through the language of the people" sure whin I remember your fair young face -your yellow hair, and the fight that was in your eyes, Light of my eyes and of my heart.

Afther all,

and don't take sich a long journey upon you.
maybe, you would'nt see him; sure the nabours will help
us, if you could only humble yourself to ax them!"

"Kathleen," said Owen, "when this is past, you'll be

glad I went-indeed you will; sure it's only the tindher feelin' of your hearts, darlins. Who knows what the landlord may do when I see himself, and show him these resates every penny paid him by our own family. Let me go, acushla; it does cut me to the heart to laave yees the way yees are in, even for a while; but it's far worse to see

your poor wasted faces, widout havin' it in my power to

do

any thing for yees."

He then kissed them again, one by one; and pressing the affectionate partner of his sorrows to his breaking heart, he bade God bless them, and set out in the twilight of a bitter March morning. He had not gone many yards from the door when little Alley ran after him in tears; he felt her hand upon the skirts of his coat, which she plucked with a smile of affection that neither tears nor sorrow could repress. "Father, kiss me again," said she. He stooped down and kissed her tenderly. The child then ascended a green ditch, and Owen, as he looked back, saw her standing upon it; her fair tresses were tossed by the blast about her face, as with straining eyes she watched Kathleen and the other him receding from her view. children stood at the door, and also with deep sorrow watched his form, until the angle of the bridle road, rendered him no longer visible; after which they returned slowly to the fire and wept bitterly.

We believe no men are capable of bearing greater toil or privation than the Irish. Owen's viaticum was only two or three oaten cakes tied in a little handkerchief, and a With this small few shillings in silver to pay for his bed. stock of food and money, an oaken stick in his hand, and his wife's kerchief tied about his waist, he undertook a journey of one hundred and eighty miles in quest of a landlord who, so far from being acquainted with the distresses of his tenantry, scarcely knew even their names, and not one of them in person.

Our scene now changes to the metropolis. One evening, about half past six o'clock, a toil-worn man turned his steps to a splendid mansion in Mountjoy-square; his apAs he went pearance was drooping, fatigued, and feeble. along, he examined the numbers on the respective doors, until he reached one-before which he stopped for a moment; he then stepped out upon the street, and looked through the windows, as if willing to ascertain whether there was any chance of his object being attained. Whilst

en the half of them by severity: you've turned the tenants against yourself and his honor here; and I tell you now, though you're to the fore, that, in the coorse of a short time, there'ill be bad work upon the estate, except his honor here looks into his own affairs, and hears the complaints of the people; look at these resates, yer honor, they'll show you, Sir"

in this situation a carriage rolled rapidly up, and stopped with a sudden check that nearly threw the horses on their haunches. In an instant the thundering knock of the servant intimated the arrival of some person of rank; the hall door was opened, and Owen, availing himself of that opportunity, entered the hall. Such a visitor, however, was too remarkable to escape notice. The hand of the menial was rudely placed against his breast; and as the “Carthy, I can hear no such language against the gen. usual impertinent interrogatories were put to him, the pam-tleman to whom I entrust the management of my property; pered ruffian kept pushing him back, until the afflicted of course I refer the matter solely to him-I can do nothing man stood upon the upper step leading to the door. in it." "For the sake of God, and let me spake but two words to him. I'm his tenant; and I know he's too much of a jintleman to turn away a man that has lived upon his honor's estate father and son-for upwards of two hundre years. My name's Owen-"

"You can't see him, my good fellow, at this hour. Go to Mr. M, his Agent: we have company to dinner. He never speaks to a tenant on business; his Agent manages all that. Please, leave the way, here's more company."

As he uttered the last word, he pushed Owen back, who, forgetting that the stairs were behind him, fell-received a severe cut, and was so completely stunned, that he lay senseless and bleeding. Another carriage drove up, as the fellow, now much alarmed, attempted to raise him from the steps, and, by orders of the gentleman who came in it, he was brought into the hall. The circumstance now made some noise. It was whispered about, that one of Mr's tenants, a drunken fellow from the country, wanted to break in forcibly to see him; but then it was also asserted, that his skull was broken, and that he lay dead in the hall. Several of the gentlemen above stairs, on hearing that a man had been killed, immediately assembled about him, and by the means of restoratives, he soon recovered, though the blood streamed copiously from the wound in the back of his head.

"Who are you, my good man ?" said Mr. S.

Owen looked about him rather vacantly, but soon collected himself, and replied, in a mournful and touching tone of voice" I am one of your honor's tenants, from Tubber Derg; my name is Owen M'Carthy, your honor, that is, if you be Mr.

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"And pray, what brought you to town, M'Carthy ?” "I wanted to make an humble appale to your honor's feelins, in regard of my bit of farm. I and my poor family, your honour, have been broken down by hard times and the sickness of the sason. God knows how they are."

"If you wish to speak to me about that, my good man, you must know I refer all these matters to my agent-go to him; he knows them best; and whatever is right and proper to be done for you, he will do it. Sinclair, give him a crown, and send him to the Dispensary to get his head dressed. I say, Carthy, go to my agent; he knows whether your claim is just or not, and will attend to it accordingly."

"Plase your honor, I've been wid him, and he says he can do nothin' whatsomever for me. I went two or three times, and could'nt see him, he was so busy; and when I did get a word or two wid him, he told me there was more offered for my land than I'm payin'; and that, if I did not pay up, I must be put out-God help me!"

"Kathleen, avourneen!" exclaimed the poor man, a he looked up despairingly to heaven-"and ye, poor dar. lins of my heart! Is this the news I'm to have for yees whin I go home? As you hope for mercy, Sir, don't tara away your ear from my petition, that I'd humbly make to yourself. Cowld, and hunger, and hardship are at home before me, yer honor. If you'd be pleased to look at these resates, you'd see that I always paid my rent, and 'twas sickness and the hard times————,”

"And your own honesty, industry, and good conduct," said the Agent, giving a dark and malignant sneer at him. "Carthy, it shall be my business to see that you do not spread a bad spirit through the tenantry much longer. Sir, you have heard the fellow's admission. It is an implied threat that he will give us much serious trouble. There is not such another incendiary on your property—not one, upon my honour."

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Sir," said a servant, "dinner is on the table." Sinclair," said his landlord, " give him another crown, and tell him to trouble me no more." Saying which, he and the Agent went up to the drawing-room, and, in a moment, Owen saw a large party sweep down stairs, full of glee and vivacity, among whom both himself and his distresses were as completely forgotten as if they had never existed.

He now slowly departed, and knew not whether the house steward had given him money or not, until he felt it in his hand. A cold, sorrowful weight lay upon his heart; the din of the town deadened his affliction into a stupor; but an overwhelming sense of his disappointment, and a conviction of the Agent's diabolical falsehood, enterad, like barbed arrows, into his heart.

On leaving the steps, he looked up to Heaven in the dis traction of his agonizing thoughts; the clouds were black and lowering; the wind stormy, and as it carried them on its dark wing along the sky, he wished, if it were the will of God, that his head lay in the quiet grave-yard where the ashes of his forefathers reposed in peace. But he again remembered his Kathleen and their children, and the large tears of anguish, deep and bitter, rolled slowly down his cheeks.

We will not trace him into an hospital, whither the wound on his head occasioned him to be sent, but simply state, that, on the second week after this, a man with his head bound in a handkerchief, lame, bent, and evidently labouring under severe illness or great affliction, might be seen toiling slowly up the little hill that commanded a view of Tubber Derg. On reaching the top, he sat down to rest for a few minutes, but his eye was eagerly turned to the house which contained all that was dear to him on this earth. The sun was setting, and shone with half his disk visible, in that dim and cheerless splendour which produces almost in every temperament a feeling of melancholy. His house which, in happier days, formed so beautiful and con “Och, indeed, and it would be well both for your hon-spicuous an object in the view, was now, from the darkness or's tinants and yourself, if you did, Sir. Your honor ought to know, Sir, more about us, and how we're thrated. I'm an honest man, Sir, and I tell you so for your good." "And pray, Sir," said the agent, stepping forward, for he had arrived a few minutes before, and heard the last observation of M'Carthy, "pray, how are they treated, you that know so well, and are so honest a man ?-As for honesty, you might have referred to me, for that, I think,"

But I tell you, Carthy, I never interfere between him

and my tenants."

he added.

"Mr. M," said Owen, "we're thrated very badly. Sir, you needn't look at me, for I'm not afeerd to spake the thruth; no bullyin', Sir, will make me say any thing in your favour that you don't desarve. You've brok

of its walls, scarcely discernible. The position of the sun,
too, rendered it more difficult to be seen, and Owen, for it
was he, shaded his eyes with his hand to survey it more
distinctly. Many a harrowing thought and remembrance
passed through his mind, as his eye traced its dim outline
in the fading light. He had done his duty-he had gone
to the fountain-head, with a hope that his simple story of
affliction might be heard; but all was fruitless; the only
gleam of hope that opened upon their misery bad now
passed into darkness and despair for ever.
He pressed his
aching forehead with distraction as he thought of this;
then clasped his hands bitterly, and groaned aloud.

At length he rose, and proceeded with great difficulty,

for the short rest had stiffened his weak and fatigued joints.agin, father;' an' this was afther herself an' all of them had As he approached home his heart sank; and as he as- kissed me afore. But och! och! Blessed Mother, Frank, cended the blood-red stream which covered the bridle-way where's my Kathleen and the rest?-and why are they out that led to his house, what with fatigue and affliction, his of their own poor place?" agitation weakened him so much that he stopped, and leaned on his staff several times, that he might take breath. "It's too dark, maybe, for them to see me, or poor Kathleen would send the darlins to give me the she dha ceha. Kathleen, avourneen machree, how my heart beats wid long to see you, asthore, and to see the weeny crathurs -glory be to Him that has left them to me-praise and glory to His name!"

He was now within a few perches of the door; but a sudden misgiving shot across his heart when he saw it shut, and no appearance of smoke from the chimney, nor of stir or life about the house. He advanced

"Mother of glory, what's this!-but, wait, let me rap agiu. Kathleen Kathleen-are you widin, avourneen? Owen Alley arn't yees widin, childhre? Alley, sure I'm come back to yees all!" and he rapped more loudly than before. A dark breeze swept through the bushes as he spoke, but no voice nor sound proceeded from the house; all was still as death within. "Alley!" he called once more to his little favourite; "I'm come home wid something for you, asthore; I didn't forget you, alanna-I brought it from Dublin all the way-Alley!" but the gloomy murmur of the blast was the only reply.

Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew as misery was that which he then felt; but this state of suspense was soon terminated by the appearance of a neighbour who was passing.

"Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home agin, my poor fellow; and I'm sorry that I havn't betther news for you, and so are all of us."

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"Owen, I tould you a while agone, that you must be a man. I gave you the worst news first, and what's to come doesn't signify much. It was too dear; for if any man could live upon it, you could-you have neither house nor home, Owen, nor land. An ordher came from the Agintyour last cow was taken, so was all you had in the worldhem-barrin' a thrifle. No, bad manners to it-no, you're not widout a home, any way-the family's in my barn, brave and comfortable, compared to what your own house was, that let in the wather through the roof like a sieve; and while the same barn's to the fore, never say you want a home."

"God bless you, Frank, for that goodness to them and me. If you're not rewarded for it here, you will in a betther place. Och, I long to see Kathleen and the childher! But I'm fairly broken down, Frank, and hardly able to mark the ground; and, indeed, no wondher, if you knew but all, still let God's will be done! Poor Kathleen, I must bear up afore her, or she'll break her heart, for I know how she loved the goolden-haired darlin' that's gone from us. Och, and how did she go, Frank, for I left her betther?"

"Why, the poor girsha took a relapse, and wasn't strong enough to bear up against the last attack; but its one comfort to you to know that she's happy."

Owen stood for a moment, and looking solemnly in his neighbour's face, exclaimed, in a deep and exhausted voice, "Frank !"

"What are you going to say, Owen ?"
"The heart widin me's broke-broke!"

The large tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks,

He whom he addressed had almost lost the power of and he proceeded in silence to the house of his friend. speech:

"Frank," said he, and he wrung his hand. "What what? was death among them? for the sake of Heaven spake!"

There was, however, a feeling of sorrow in his words and manner which Frank could not withstand. He grasped Owen's hand, and, in a low and broken voice, simply said "Keep your spirits up-keep them up."

The severe pressure he received in return ran like a shock When they came to the barn in which his helpless family of paralysis to his heart. "Owen, you must be a man; had taken up their temporary residence, Owen stood for a every one pities yees, and may the Almighty pity and sup- moment to collect himself; but he was nervous, and trembled port yees! She is, indeed, Owen, gone; the weeny fair-haired with repressed emotion. They then entered; and Kathleen, child, your favourite Alley, is gone. Yestherday she was on seeing her beloved and affectionate husband, threw herberrid; and dacently the nabours attinded the place, and self on his bosom, and for some time felt neither joy nor sorsent in, as far as they had it, both mate and dhrink to Kath-row-she had swooned. The poor man embraced her with leen and the other ones. Now, Owen, you've heard it; trust in God, an' be a man."

a tenderness at once mournful and deep. The children, on seeing their father safely returned, forgot their recent grief, and clung about him with gladness and delight. In the mean time Kathleen recovered, and Owen for many minutes could not check the loud and clamorous grief-now revived by the presence of her husband-with which the heart-broken and emaciated mother deplored her departed child; and Owen himself on once more looking among the little ones on seeing her little frock hanging up, and her stool vacant by the fire on missing her voice, and her blue laughing eyes, and remembering the affectionate manner in which, as with a presentiment of death, she held up her little mouth, and offered the last kiss he slowly pulled the toys and cakes he had purchased for her out of his pocket, surveyed them for a moment, and then putting his hands on his face, bent his head upon his bosom, and wept with the vehement outpouring of a father's sorrow.

A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the heart. “Gone!—the fair-haired one!--Alley!—Alley !—the pride of both our hearts; the sweet, the quiet, and the sorrowful child, that seldom played wid the rest, but kept wid mys! Oh, my darlin', my darlin'!gone from my eyes for ever! God of glory! won't you support me this night of sorrow and misery! With a sudden yet profound sense of humility, he dropped on his knees at the threshold, and, as the tears rolled down his convulsed cheeks, exclaimed, in a burst of sublime piety, not at all uncommon among our peasantry "I thank you, O my God! I thank you, an' I put myself an' my weeny ones, my pastchee boght, into your hands. I thank you, O God, for what has happened! Keep me up and support me och, I want it! you loved the weeny one and you took her; she was the light of my eyes and the pulse of my broken heart; but you took her, blessed The reader perceives that he was a meek man; that Father of heaven! an' we can't be angry wid you for so his passions were not dark nor violent; he bore no revenge doin! Still if you had spared her-if-if-oh, blessed Fa- to those who neglected or injured him, and in this he differther my heart was in the very one you took-but I thanked from too many of his countrymen. No; his spirit was you, O God! May she rest in pace, now and for ever, Amin!" He then rose up, and slowly wiping the tears from his eyes, departed.

"Let me hould your arm, Frank, dear," said he. "I'm weak and tired wid a long journey. Och, an' can it be that she's gone, the fair-haired colleen! When I was lavin' home, an' had kissed them all-'twas the first time we ever parted, Kathleen and I, since our marriage-the blessed child came over an' held up her mouth, sayin', 'Kiss me

A welcome.

broken down with sorrow, and had not room for the fiercer and more destructive passions. His case excited general pity. Whatever his neighbours could do to sooth him, and alleviate his affliction, was done. His farm was not taken; for fearful threats were held out against those who might venture to occupy it. In these threats he had nothing to do; on the contrary, he strongly deprecated them. Their existence, however, was deemed by the agent sufficient to justify him in his callous and malignant severity towards Owen. (To be concluded next week.)

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