A DULL GIRL.

SHE was always counted a dull girl. She was a dunce at school, where neither severe punishmants nor threatenings of disgrace could force the simplest knowledge into her head. Every morning with stoic indifference, she held out her hands for the "slaps" which were her daily portion; and yet she used to study diligently in the evenings at home, conning over the lessons word for word, until it seemed that memory must aid her where understanding failed; but when she laid aside her books, her mind was still a blauk on which her labour had left no mark. Her parents at length decided to keep her at home, for they felt ashamed of her stupidity.

""Tis betther for her stay with me, an' try to be of some use in the house," the mother said, "than to keep her goin' to that school where she is learnin' nothing, an' only makin' a fool of herself an' of us before the country."

The father acquiesced, and Maggie became a household drudge, the butt of her brothers' and sisters' thoughtless jests, and an object of amusement to her former companions. The mother was at first inclined to be hard on her, but when she found her a willing little slave, who never complained, no matter what amount of work was allotted to her, and who went through it all satisfactorily, she repented of her harshness, and protected her from the unkindness of the others.

As they grew into manhood and womanhood, her brothers and sisters, who were lively young people, enjoyed themselves at all the amusements, which they and their friends got up during the long winter nights and the summer evenings; the dances in barns and at cross-roads to the familiar music of the shrill flute, the singing of the latest ballad, and the card-playing for geese and turkeys-this last by no means favourably regarded by the elder and more sensible people. But Maggie possessed none of these rustic accomplishments; she could not learn to dance or sing or play; music seemed to her but a succession of sounds having no relation to each other, and dancing, the tracing out of an intricate pattern, the circles, squares, and interlacings of which would simply bewilder her. So she remained at home with her father

and mother, when the others were all away; in the winter sitting beside them, stocking in hand, near the kitchen fire, listening to their conversation, but seldom speaking except in answer to a question. In the summer she often stole out when her work was done to wander over the bog which stretched in front of the house, pausing at every step to examine some flower or fern, which she never plucked, but whose growth she watched with a jealous care, noting the unfolding of leaf and frond, the imperceptible changing of colour, from the fresh, pale green of the first days to the deeper shade of maturity, and then the waning into the "sere and yellow."

The meadow at the back of the house was another favourite retreat of Maggie's. The great clump of yellow iris which grew in one corner near the river, had a wonderful attraction for her; she had never seen prettier flowers, and she could spend hours gazing upon them. Alas! she had not the hours to spare, but, while they were in bloom, every moment that she could snatch from the day was spent amongst them. One evening she sat there on the moat which ran along by the river; a June moon was riding high in the heavens and flooding the land with its golden light, the frogs were croaking in the dikes. Anyone passing by would have taken Maggie for a ghost, as she sat motionless, her shawl wrapt tightly around her, and her face resting on her upturned palms; her cousin thought so, as he approached her.

"Is it wantin' to frighten the life out of some poor devil you are, Mago, or tryin' to turn into one of thim flagger-flowers? he jocularly asked when he reached her. "Sure I took your head

in the distance to be a dozen flaggers in one."

She looked up without a start of surprise or fear, though she had not expected him, and had not seen him coming.

"Good evenin', Tim Connors," she said in her matter-of-fact

tones.

"Why aren't you at Nestor's party? There is more fun there than sittin' out here in the cowld moonlight, with a lot of flaggers for companions, an' ne'er a one to speak to."

"The others are gone there, Tim."

Yes, I know, but why aren't you with thim? Why is it that you never go anywhere ?"

She paused to consider; this had not struck her before.

"Someone must stay at home."

"Then Julia and Kate ought to stay in turns, an' let you out sometimes. "Tisn't fair or right to have all the fun to themselves. I'm thinkin' you don't ask to go."

"No,"

"Is it because you can't dance?"

Another pause. "I don't know, maybe it is."

"Well, then, why don't you try to learn? Get Patsey or Julia to teach you; they're the best steppers in the country." Maggie shook her head.

"You wouldn't ask thim, is it? What a quare girl you are. Come on now, an' you an' I'll have a hop together. There's nobody in the kitchen but your mother, 'twas she told me I'd find you here. Your father's gone to bed."

Maggie rose obediently, and went with Tim to the house. Her mother was nodding by the fire, but their entrance roused her.

"So you found her, Tim alanna. Sure she's an omadhawn to be wanderin' over the country, this hour of night, like a sperrit that couldn't rest, the Lord between us an' all harm. A dacent girl wouldn't be giving the neighbours room to talk, but, for sure, they say enough already."

64

Her daughter's strange ways were a sore point to Mrs. Connor's; she heard what the people said, the remarks they passed, and the laughs they enjoyed at Maggie's expense, and it grieved her that one belonging to her should be a subject for such. 'Mago an' I are goin' to have a hop for ourselves on the floor here, Ma'am ; 'tis a pity you can't 'jig' for us, as I am badly able to whistle and dance together." And the young fellow drew himself up to his full height, shoved back his cap, stretched his legs one after the other, then turning to the girl, who was standing stolidly by, he extended his arms, saying, "Come on, Maggie, an' let us make a beginnin'."

The mother looked on with a pleased expression on her old withered face. No one before had taken the least interest in the girl. None of the young men of the village had ever paid her any attentions; they had not tried to teach her to dance, or to get her to accompany them to places of amusement; her dulness and want of even ordinary attractions had completely isolated her. It seemed strange for Tim Connors to leave his friends and his pleasures that evening to bother himself about the lonely girl, and

the mother hoped it was a good omen.

"There isn't a betther house-keeper in the side of a country," she whispered to herself, "an' her butter can't be bate in the market; sure if she isn't tall an' likely, an' smart of tongue, she makes up for it with her hands, tho' I'm her mother that says it." Aloud she remarked, "Ye're gettin' on grand, Tim: step it out, Maggie, that's the girl; you'll bate thim all out yet."

Alas! poor Maggie was like a log of wood, which Tim dragged here and there the grace of motion was not a latent quality in her, she was stiff and awkward, and seemed every moment to be getting more and more stupid, as the unusual excitement bewildered her. Tim was becoming exhausted with the double exertion of whistling a tune, and trying to get her to move her feet in harmony with it, when peals of laughter from the door-way brought them both to a stand-still. Maggie, looking up, shrank back into a corner, and Tim's face crimsoned with annoyance. His cousins and some of their neighbours rushed into the kitchen with amused smiles and merry jests, they had been watching the dancing for some few minutes, and Tim knew he would be the butt of many a jest and joke for months to come.

He tore himself away from them as quickly as he could, and in, by no means, an amiable manner. Maggie had received her first and last lesson in dancing, the only attention a young man ever paid her, To her mother's disappointment Tim did not return, and no one seemed inclined to take his place.

Her brothers, except the eldest Jer, went off to America, and her sisters got married, but Maggie remained on at home unsought and unwed. And yet she was not one whit plainer looking than many of her old companions who flitted with each successive Shrove. Her figure was squat and slovenly, her face colourless, her light eyes lacked expression, but many carried like disadvantages, while some of the village beauties envied her wealth of yellow hair, which ought to have compensated for much that was wanting.

No one could tell if she felt her lonely position; a mere drudge in the household, though they treated her so kindly-how could one ask her opinion and consult her tastes when she had none? If she had any regrets, she did not show them, they were not reflected in her face, neither did they find an outlet in tears or murmurings or discontented looks. She performed her daily

duties with scrupulous exactness, yet in a mechanical manner which precluded all idea of enthusiasm. She was not in love with her work, but neither did she dislike it.

Her father and her mother passed away, and they were laid to rest under the shadow of the old Abbey, which, looming up darkly in the waning light, kept Maggie from wandering in the bog after the sun had set, and sent her to seek enjoyment among the "flaggon-flowers" and daisies in the meadow.

A few years later her brother Jer got married to the sprightly daughter of one of his neighbours. Betsy had not much respect for her quiet sister-in-law who was generally regarded as a dullwitted creature; but though in no way considerate for her feelings, when Maggie's conduct amused or irritated her, she was otherwise kind to her.

When the laughter and prattle of little children filled the house with glad sounds, nobody listened to them with a happier smile than the awkward aunt whom their mother would not trust to bear them in her arms lest she might let them fall. Wherever they were, whether crawling on the floor, or sleeping in the cradle, her eyes continually sought them; and as they grew older they seemed to understand the depths of the love and devotion which her unfortunate manner prevented her showing openly. They wished to be constantly with her: when she worked in the house, they amused themselves, plucking at her dress, and running around her; when she went out to draw water from the well, to bring turf in, or to milk the cows, they trotted after her, tumbling over one another, in their effort to keep up with her quicker steps.

Their growing affection for this very common-place aunt filled their mother with surprise. She had always felt a good-natured contempt for her sister-in-law, whose lack of attractive qualities she was wont to bewail with a smile and toss of her head, and she could not understand how her children were drawn to her, for apparently she made no effort to win their love and confidence.

"Children like being talked to," she would remark, “and Maggie can hardly say a word beyond 'yes" or 'no;' they like one to play with thim an' make thim laugh, and Maggie never does; yet they are, I'm thinkin', fonder of her than they are of me."

It certainly seemed so. They insisted that "Aunt Mago should put them to bed every evening, and though this was a duty