tion of the emigration to Canada which comes by New York and enters the Dominion by the Suspension Bridge. Convenient emigration depots, after the model of that recently built at Toronto, should be established at St. John, Montreal, Ottawa, Kingston, London, Fort William and Fort Garry. In connexion with these, a regular system of labour registration should be adopted. And here comes in appropriately the work of the Provincial Governments. To organize a system of labour registration, and to provide for the conveyance of emigrants to those districts where employment awaits them, are duties which, efficiently performed, will tax all the energies of the Immigration Departments of the Provinces. Thus apportioned, there need be no conflict in the concurrent jurisdiction which the British American Act bestows upon the Governments of

Canada and of the different Provinces, in the matter of emigration. And the duties of each faithfully performed, there need be no fear of the success of this country in attracting, or its ability to absorb, a very large portion of the emigration which annually leaves the shores of the old world.

There are some considerations in relation to the necessity for immediate employment for emigrants on their arrival and how it may be provided; to the special advantages which Canada offers to the emigrant over other fields which are presented for his acceptance; and to the necessity for a national spirit in Canada, a spirit of confidence in the future of the country on the part of its own people, as a condition precedent of success in any policy for the encouragement of emigration, to which reference may be made in a future article.

A

CHAPTER I.

NORA BLAKE.

BLEAK scene on the western coast of Ireland, a wintry sunset gleaming on the leaden-coloured waves of the broad Atlantic or touching with pale golden light the savage cliffs against which it foamed and dashed with ceaseless fury-a straggling town skirting the head of a small bay or cove, that rushed in from the ocean between two rocky headlands jutting far into the surging waters. Beyond, about two miles distant, a wooded eminence, crowned by a grey stone dwelling of imposing appearance, while inland, skirting the horizon, appeared a range of lofty mountains pointing their rugged peaks heavenward in gloomy gran

deur. The scene in fine weather, especially in summer, was not wanting in picturesque beauty, but now late in the gloomy month of November it presented an aspect of bleak desolation. The short twilight had deepened into night, when rattling through the principal street of the town, the mail-coach from Galway drew up before the door of its only hotel, and the tired passengers, gladly alighting, entered the well-lighted dining-room of the Carraghmore Arms, there to partake of the inviting fare provided for them. But one among them, a young person closely veiled, to the surprise of the officious waiter, declined following her fellow travellers into the inn, observing in a low agitated voice that she was going to remain in Carraghmore.

Then requesting that her luggage might be kept till sent for, she turned quickly away from the prying eyes of the by-standers and was soon lost to view in the darkness of the night.

"I wondher who she is!" observed the waiter thoughtfully. "The voice didn't seem sthrange, but she kept that brown veil so tight over her face there was no seeing it at all."

"Look at her luggage, Tim! you'll find the name on that," shrewdly observed an ostler, as he busied himself removing the jaded horses from the coach, the bespattered condition of which showed the muddy state of the roads.

"Bedad, you're right! You're a 'cute chap, Ned. Here it is shure enough!" and raising a shabby-looking portmanteau, he inspected the name inscribed on a card in a plain school girl hand-Nora Blake.

Begorra! it's Nora Blake, come back from Dublin. I wondher how ould Dinah will recave her daughther! If what they say of her is thrue, it's her face she ought never to show in these parts again!"

"An' shure she didn't show it," observed Ned, archly. "Didn't she muffle it up in the veil so that no glimpse of it could be seen? But you're too hard on her, Tim. Shure she's not the first poor girl them wild chaps of officers led asthray. Poor Nora Blake! She was such a purty girl whin she left this to go to the dhress-makin' business in Dublin !"

"She had always too much concate in herself, and that's what her pride brought her to in the end," was Tim's ill-natured observation as he shouldered the portmanteau left in his care, and re-entered the inn while the kind-hearted ostler led his horses round to the stable, pitying all the time purty Nora Blake, "who had been led asthray-the crathur."

In the meantime the subject of this colloquy was making her way as quickly as the gloom of night would permit through a strag

She

gling street which, branching off from the principal thoroughfare of the town, led along the shore of the little bay on which it was situated. Emerging from this, where the houses ended, she entered a by-road leading in the direction of the cliffs. The way now became rugged and rather steep, and Nora Blake was obliged to proceed slowly. had been travelling several hours, and the fatigue of the journey in her present delicate state of health was too much for her strength, enfeebled as she was by recent mental suffering. Seating herself on a rock by the way side she rested for some minutes, and now a tide of bitter memories rushing in upon her mind, she bowed her face upon her hands, groaning in the extremity of her despair and anguish. The sight of her native town brought vividly before her the days of innocence and happiness she had spent there before her journey to Dublin. She was now returning to her childhood's home a fallen and despised woman, That last year if it only could be recalled! she would not now be a thing for scorn to point its finger at! But she would not have long to suffer; she knew that, and it comforted her, this thought of death, although she was very young, not yet nineteen. If she only might die now without meeting her widowed mother! "How can I meet her stern eye? How tell the story of my shame ?" were the words wailed forth on the night air and heard by no human ear in the dreary solitude around. The wild dash of the waves came up from the shore below as if in angry answer to the piteous wail. A sudden thought, a wild temptation flashing through the excited brain, and Nora Blake rushed like a frantic creature towards the tall cliffs beetling on the Atlantic. One leap from their dizzy height, one plunge into the pitiless ocean, and she would be buried with her sorrow beneath the cold waves. But quick as a ray of light through the distracted mind flashed one powerful fear, not of death, not of that fearful leap, but of the dread hereafter. Could she stand

at God's tribunal to meet a suicide's doom. Suddenly, as if struck down by a heavy blow she sank on her knees and raised to the dark heaven above her wild imploring gaze. No words of supplication passed the rigid lips, but the kneeling posture, the upraised eye, were mute appeals for mercy-appeals not made in vain, for soon to the penitent, despairing soul came whisperings of hopehope not of earth. For her, the betrayed and fallen, there could be never more the sunlight of joy; still on her darkened horizon dimly there rose the star of heavenly hope illuming the night of despair. She rose up strengthened to endure the world's scorn, even her mother's bitter reproaches, still harder to bear-all as the punishment due to her sinful dereliction from the path of

virtue.

CHAPTER II.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

SLOWLY

LOWLY Nora Blake walked on, stumbling over the rocky way until she came in sight of the humble home to which she was returning. Before venturing to enter she stole to the window and looked in, anxious to assure herself that her mother was alone. She did not wish any one to witness the first painful interview. The room was small but looked comfortable, although the furniture was of the humblest description. A turf fire burned cheerfully on the hearth adding its ruddy brightness to the dim light of a tallow candle placed on the small table at which Dinah Blake was seated drinking her tea— a luxury which from long habit had become indispensable to her comfort. In her younger days she had lived as housemaid with a gentleman's family residing at Barrington Height, the handsome mansion already mentioned not far from Carraghmore, and had in that way acquired habits and ideas above the humble life of the Irish peasant to which class her family belonged. Dinah Blake

was no ordinary woman: tall and masculine in form: she had few of the weaknesses of her sex; she was intensely revengeful in her nature; with a stern expression of face that showed a cold, unbending character. Her daughter shivered as she looked upon that stony countenance. What sympathy had she to expect from such a woman? Cold, nay harsh, her mother's demeanour had always been to her. All the love her nature seemed capable of feeling had been lavished on an unworthy son now absent with his regiment in India. Had she done wisely in seeking that mother's home in the hour of dreaded suffering now close at hand? For a moment Nora thought of retracing her steps to Carraghmore and thence back to Galway, anything rather than meet that stern mother's eye. But she was unequal to such exertion. To return to Carraghmore was to expose herself to certain death on the roadside. This thought nerved her to brave the dreaded meeting. Approaching the door she knocked with a trembling hand.

"Blessed

"Come in! where's the use of knocking when the door is not locked?" was heard in the gruff tones of Dinah Blake. Virgin! who is this?" she added, starting to her feet with a sudden cry as her daughter, trembling with agitation, staggered into the room. One glance at the pallid, altered face, and then her arms were stretched out, not to clasp the unhappy girl in a motherly embrace, but as if to ward off the misery and disgrace she felt were coming upon her.

"So you're come back, and what I've been How dare you fearing has come at last! darken my door again?" she exclaimed with wild excitement, her eyes flashing fiery indignation at the wretched girl who knelt cowering at her feet.

This reception did not surprise Nora, but its violence overwhelmed her. She could not utter a word, and what had she to say in self-defence? She could only implore her mother's pity with the mute eloquence of her beseeching eyes; but that mother's heart