Never had life seemed so beautiful to Ethna, or Mona such a home of exquisite content; she was up with the birds, and the day was short and the lingering evening too fleet to satisfy her intensified enjoyment of them. Philip Moore spent a good many of his idle hours at Mona. The Madam was always glad to see him. She had known him well when he was a boy, and it never occurred to her that there could be any danger in such intimacy; he was Ethna's cousin, so familiar intercourse was natural. The young man enjoyed his privileges. He came whenever he liked; he lay at the girl's feet on the soft sward, laughing at her exalted ideas; mocking her enthusiasm, arguing, and looking into her eyes. Sometimes he was a cynic, as regarded the whole race of women; sometimes he was eloquent on the ennobling influence of a good one, and drew the girl into interminable debates that amused and occasionally touched him with their noble simplicity. It is not unusual in such conversations for the young man to assume the character of a world-weary sinner, and open gloomy but indefinite views into his wasted past, to arouse the missionary ardour of his listener; nor is it unusual for the girl to be more interested in the dark labyrinth of his passion-worn heart, than in the honest, open, well-behaved, young fellow, who has not, and does not pretend he has,anything in his life needing concealment. Philip Moore was rather inclined to don this role of satiated worldling, and it had its effects on Ethna. She saw much that was noble in him; he had put his life before her as though it were now a shattered column broken from its purpose, prone upon the earth, the cohesive power wanting; and it seemed to her a divine career for a woman to infuse her loving energy into this exhausted specimen of humanity, to aid in collecting the scattered fragments and build again the lofty edifice destined to reach heaven. Human nature is proverbially prone to vanity, but at no time is that particular form of self-conceit more strongly developed than when a person is in love. A woman will marry a man who, she knows, is passionate, dissipated, and irreligious, with the most perfect confidence that her influence will quietly distroy the rooted habits of twenty, thirty, forty years; she finds usually that she exaggerated her power, and that the man who will not control himself for the love of God, will hardly do so for the love of his wife. Men are generally more particular about the character of their wives, but they have unfailing faith in their ability to mould

the plastic feminine nature into any desirable form, making it fit as they would a pair of gloves; and they also discover that this adaptability, this training of a full-grown shoot, is not easy to accomplish. Both parties also find influencing their respective partners, a far more irritating mission than they ever imagined.

One summer afternoon Ethna sat by the schoolmaster's fireside, listening to his old blind mother who was giving a minute account of her physical sensations-the water-brash she got on Tuesday, the impresion on her chest, etc.

"You ought to get something from the doctor, Molly," said Ethna.

"I hate doctors," answered the old woman; "I never gave much heed to them; they kills more than they cures, asthore. Peggy Bawn never riz her head since she took the last bottle she got; stopped the cough on her, and she went out like the snuff of a candle. Many's the one they kills, an' no talk about it. Well I know.

"Good evening, Mr. Lynch," said Ethna, as the schoolmaster entered.

"Good evening to you, Miss Moore; I hope your respected parent enjoys good health."

"She is quite well, Mr. Lynch, thank you; she complains of you for not coming to see her."

"She is very good-very good to an humble individual of my grade in society; and truly I was about to do myself the honour of paying her my respects. I am venturing to tax the generosity of her nature, and your benevolence, Miss Ethna, by preferring a small request."

"You may be sure we will do anything we can for you, Mr. Lynch."

"I am aware of it-well aware of it, and you can do much for me; very much. My desire is this, Miss. There is a small strip of land running down between the schoolhouse and Paddy Ned's garden; 'tis of no use to any one at present, but would be valuable to me, and could serve me to give a few lessons in agriculture to the boys-lessons badly needed; a word from the Madam, or better still, from you, would see it transferred into my possession. You are all powerful with our respected landlord." "Come down and speak to mamma, Mr. Lynch."

"I shall be happy to obey your commands, Miss Ethna. The

Madam's word is good, good indeed, but you will pardon my boldness, if I say that I think a word from you to Mr. Philip Moore would consummate the matter. 'Tis said he couldn't refuse you anything."

Ethna flushed at the insinuation.

"He is my cousin, you know," she said, taking the usual refuge behind relationship.

"I'm quite aware of it, my dear young lady, quite aware of it; but I rejoice that you are not related within the forbidden degreeha, ha, ha! Pardon my joke!"

"Where is Mr. Vincent Talbot this time back?" asked the blind woman. ""Tis he has the civil word for the poor. He'd come in here and reach me the bit of tobaccy. The sound of his voice would rise one's heart."

"He was in Dublin for some time, Molly. He has passed his examinations, and will soon be home."

"The Lord pour his blessin's on him wherever he is, asthore, and bring him home safe. Sure people does be sayin' ye'll be man an' wife when the time comes."

"Oh, nonsense, Molly, there is not a word of truth in it. People are always marrying those that never think of it themselves."

"Excuse my mother, Miss Ethna; she belongs to the old times, and has no understanding."

"Ah! the old times," said the old woman, shaking her head sadly, "them was the times that was good an' pleasant, not like the times now; the life is gone out of the world. Sure there is no summer or nothin', everything cowld an' empty like. God be with the times when I was young."

"Ah! Molly, I fear it is ourselves that change, and not the world," said Ethna.

$6

Maybe it is, alanna; maybe it is. when I had my eyesight. The Lord

Sure I'm not what I was give us all the light of

heaven. I was a smart colleen in my day, asthore; it was no aisy thing to dance me down in a moneen jig; an' who'd bate me at bindin' or clovin'? Very few, then. Yarra, the girls now isn't worth their feedin'."

"How did you lose your sight, Molly?" asked Ethna.

"Whethin I don't know, avourneen. Sometimes I thinks it was too much I cried, God forgive me, an' good cause I had; but

that says nothin'. I went through my share of trouble, so I did. Sure 'tis a hard thing to be put out of house an' home. My mother had no hoult of the spot of land when my father died-the light of heaven to him-an' the master wanted to turn it to himself; we was in the way of his view, he said, and so we wor put out. I'm tould he left the gable end of the wall standin', because it looked purty with all the fine ivy growing over it. I'd like to go there again to get one look at it. ing? Sure I couldn't see it-glory be to Mother."

But what am I sayGod an' His blessed

"Where did you go when you left the land, Molly?"

"There was five of us and my mother; she was very good to live-very good intirely-an' drew the face of the people. We set up a huxter's shop at Monaleena; 'twas a poor place them times; there was little talks of tay an' sugar then, and maybe you wouldn't sell a pound of dips in a week, only burning splinters of bogdeal and paddies; but the soap, and tobaccy, and pipes was always wanted, an' many's the little thing. Then I got married to Patsy Lynch, the decentest boy in the parish, and very devout. No wonder, sure, an' he the clerk of the chapel. Often I used to tell him his head would get light from sayin' his prayers. Oh, dear, 'twas Father O'Malley had the wish for him, an' a sore loss. he was to us the day he died, the bed of heaven to him! I had a good fortune-twinty good pounds and a fine feather bed; but sure you couldn't get a place anywhere for that much now, people has such fine notions."

"And were you happy then, Molly? Were you fond of your husband when you married him ?"

"Fond of him, alanna! Ah! see was I.

Many's the time I used to put a stone down on the track of his foot, so that I'd keep the mark of it. Wasn't I the foolish onsha ? But I loved the ground he walked on, an' he was desarvin' of it; an' pleasant an' likely he was, my poor man, but sure the misfortune was always afther us. We gave my fortin' an' as much more as we could scrape together to a neighbour, Kory Oge, for the goodwill of a spot of land an' house he had, he keeping a haggard an' a room for himself. He hadn't a chick or child, an' sure we thought it was a safe bargain, an' the agent didn't say agin it; but Rory, the misfortunate crathur, was givin to trappin' an' shootin' an' goin' in places he had no business. An' the landlord was a great

sporther too, an' in the lucky hour Rory was caught at his tricks, au' notice to quit was served on the whole of us. The priest an' everyone spoke for us, but 'twas all to no use. After givin' our money an' everythin', we had to walk, an' the cabin was thrown down. We felt it sore, an' for days an' days we settled up the rafters and slep' under them. I think I got the cowld in my eyes there, an' many's the salt tears I shed. The childher, too, got sickly. Two of them died that Christmas; but we struggled on. The little boy became assistant at the school, an' we wor able to send our little girl decently out of the country. The Lord was good to us."