brought us to this country. Wait, Nell has a photograph of him; you might know it."

Father Garrett left the room.

"I hope it is not the same," said Joe Smith to Vincent. "My poor friend died in my arms in a hospital in New York, where I also was laid up with a wound."

The priest returned, rubbing a picture with his handkerchief, followed by Nell.

Joe Smith stood up and took it in his hand. He looked at it for a moment and returned it, saying slowly :-"That is the man.” There was something in his face or voice which struck the girl. "Is he dead?" she asked; "or where is he?"

“I have a few things belonging to him," he replied, evading her question, "a penknife, a purse. He was one to be proud of." "He is dead then," said Father Garrett. "I thought so for a long time; he would have written if he were alive; it is five years since I heard from him last."

The tears gathered in Nell's eyes.

"I suppose the truth is best to know," said Joe Smith. "My friend died in hospital four years ago. He was the dearest friend I ever had, the best and bravest fellow that ever breathed. It will be a comfort to you to know that he was prepared to meet his Creator."

Father Garrett cleared his throat. "You can be a stranger to us no longer," he said extending his hand, which the other clasped. "You are sure the photograph was his?"

"Quite sure, I have a carte of his I can show you, on which he has written his name. I have old letters of his which I will

bring you.'

I guessed he was not in this world," said Father Garrett, brushing his hand over his eyes; to speak to one who saw him die. him. I thank God he had time little time before us."

"but it brings his death home Well, the Lord have mercy on to prepare; he has gone but a

Nell left the room to weep in secret for the brother, of whom indeed she had but an imperfect recollection. She took out the letters he had written to Father Garrett from time to time, and re-read them with that sad, new interest that is awakened by the knowledge that the writer has fallen prostrate in the march of life, while the great human procession moves onward to the clash of

interests and self-trumpetings, heedless of those who drop out of its ranks to creep into the quiet bosom of the earth.

What an olla podrida we make of our lives; a curious mixture of vain desires and broken hopes! We never cease to be children; we only cease to be innocent; we seek our pleasures as eagerly and weary of them as quickly as in those forgotten days when we made ourselves unpleasant in the domestic circle by our performances on a toy-drum; each succeeding each, poor bubble hunters, over that mystic bridge that once was vision-flung across "the long, low valley of Bagdad." It is a difficult thing-as workers in the vineyard find-to make us take accurate views of life and the mystery of creation, and arouse within us a conscious belief that we have not here a permanent city, that it is but a means to the end, and that the one business we came into this world for was to win our way to that celestial one that lies outside our human perception. Christians hold such belief fundamentally; but above that, obscuring it partially or entirely, is an active conviction that this life is the principal existence-the one we were born to enjoy, and for whose transient honours we are to fight as eagerly as a Trappist for his everlasting crown. Is not a dead man unconsciously spoken of as if he were dead-body and soul? He is prayed for, and there is every hope that he is in heaven; but nevertheless, he is mentioned as if all were over for him, and as if his loss was greater than his gain. We take oblique views, and walk on such low levels, that when we are constrained to lift our eyes to the sun of truth, we are dazed rather than delighted with the sublime destiny awaiting us at the other side of the grave. Some take offence at having the kingdom of heaven brought too close to them. Supernatural things annoy them. How could the affairs of the world be carried on, they cry, if every one were thinking of heaven ?-overlooking the fact that it is usually those who entertain such lofty thoughts who do their business best, and the affairs of the world would certainly become wonderfully simplified if men's thoughts were simplified. What a strange contrast there is between the streets of the city with the rush and roar of tram-cars and carriages, the hurry of passengers, the fantastic fashions, the gaily-adorned shop-windows, the itinerant music, and the road leading to Glasnevin, on either side of which is seen but spectral decorations of the graves of men ?

It seems there as if life had dwarfed into insignificance, as it the world was made not for the living but the dead, and the only real occupation in it was monumental carving for the place of tombs.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHEAP JACK'S AUCTION.

With unusual reticence, the cause of which she did not attempt defining, Nell O'Malley had never told her brother about the torn receipt and the curious circumstance of Joe Smith's having written at the end of it the name of Louis Sarsfield. It occurred to her that it might prejudice Father Garrett against him, who was inclined to suspect there was some malformation wherever there was concealment.

"He may have good reasons for calling himself a false name," she said to herself. "He may be more respectable than his calling. It would not be right of me to prejudice one who could help him."

That evening, and many evenings after, Louis Sarsfield, as we may now call him, sat in Father Garrett's parlour, telling his adventures by flood and field, filling his listeners' hearts with some of his own half-saddened enthusiasm; he and Nell usually taking the same side in argument against Father Garrett's wiser and more moderate aspirations. Sometimes the priest, worn out by a hard day's work, would lie for an hour on the sofa while Louis read aloud for Nell, with a very musical voice, favourite passages from American authors that brought one into the heart of the new world

"With the odour of the forest,

With the dew and damp of meadow,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,"

into all the freshness, and vigour, and breadth that seems to an islander to animate that great land that can give away its broad fields and forests to strangers for the asking, while to them an acre at home is often the cause of bloodshed.

Nell's fingers were always busy, but she often lifted her piquant little face to praise or to condemn, and the young man became as much interested in what Moore calls the book of woman's looks as in the flights of genius bound in crimson and gold; listening as reverently to the thoughts springing direct and simple from the honest young heart of the girl that instinctively rejected sham sentiment, as he listened to the divine warblings falling from the heights of Parnassus.

Such glorified reports of the bargains to be got at the auctions spread through the length and breadth of the land that they were becoming nightly more crowded, and Cheap Jack's name had become a household word. New goods were arriving every other day, and the more people bought, the more they were inclined to buy. One Saturday evening Vincent Talbot, who usually came out and remained at Mona until Monday, proposed they should go down to drink tea at Father Garrett's and attend the auction.

The evenings were a little heavy at Mona latterly. Perhaps it was that one expected more of them because of the supposed-tobe joyous circumstances; but Ethna made no particular effort to amuse her intended husband, and they were undeniably dull. Vincent's nature entirely revolted against dullness. He never attempted to make the best of such conditions; he tried to escape from them, and seized upon any external distraction with extreme relish.

It was a beautiful night, clear and cold. Orion's belt of wondrous stars glittered in the dark heavens, and far, far in the great deeps of space pale worlds trembled and mighty suns gave light to them.

Ethna gazed upwards to the skies as they drove along, letting her mind drift upon the tides of thought. They did not draw her upward; they only awoke within her-as the beautiful in nature or art does—a strange yearning for happiness; a yearning mingled with unutterable sadness, as though the soul was conscious that happiness was unattainable. Who has not felt such aspirations, mingled with a "divine despair," when a wave of noble music ebbs and flows upon the ear? It seems as if the sweet wave had broken through a rift upon the low level of our lives from a great ocean of undreamed-of melancholy lying outside our human consciousness; and something wakes and swells, despairs and struggles within our breasts; we long to get out of ourselves and

float outwards upon that singing sea.

What an amount of sadness, or what we call sadness, there is in our surroundings! In the most joyous music we discourse an undertone of sorrow; the sea moans; the winds sigh; the strain of the sweetest song-bird is melancholy; laughter lifts us beyond the brute, and lowers us below the angels. We could not faney ourselves laughing in Heaven; even on earth our moments of ecstasy do not dispose us to such manifestation of enjoyment. Everything that is beautiful is serious.

Father Garrett and Nell were delighted when their friends from Mona arrived. Nell and Nora went immediately to the kitchen and made a hot cake, with the greatest dispatch, discoursing on the advantage of having a fairy godmother, and how they would have a pumpkin changed into an apple pie, and rats and mice into jam tarts, if they had the opportunity thrown away upon Cinderella.

"I should not like glass-slippers. What should I do if they broke and let out all my blood?" said Nora. "I'd rather have the blue shoes with rosettes."

"And I would not like grand princes," answered Nell," who would never let me into the kitchen to make a hot cake."

When the hot cake was satisfactorily disposed of, they all proceeded to the barn. Louis Sarsfield, who rarely entered the auction room, was walking up and down the village street. Vincent hailed him, and he went with them to see that they were comfortably placed.

Cheap Jack's tongue was in full swing when they entered.
"What is that he has up now?" said Father Garrett.

"A wedding ring, your reverence," replied Cheap Jack. "There's a young girl in the corner expects you'll be putting it on her next Shrove if Patsy Burke has the pluck to bid on for it. One an' sixpence-one an' sixpence; best carat gold; going for one an' sixpence two shillings; good boy, Corney, there's one near you won't mislike the pattern."

Lizzie Lynch drew into the shade, and Corney Burke's handsome, sunburnt face became scarlet.

"Go on, boys; what will the girls think ye are made of? No more bids after two shillings. Ashamed of his reverence ye are, but sure he can't marry ye without rings. Going for two shillings -a fine gold ring; thick enough to ring a pig. No more bids;