CHAPTER III.

"The stranger at my fireside cannot see

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear :
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear."

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only,

As the mist resembles the rain."

LONGFELLOW.

THE same day at dinner, Lionel had a more ample opportunity of observing Catherine, as she sat opposite to him, conversing freely and unrestrainedly with Father Maguire, the family confessor, a tall, broadshouldered, intelligent-looking man, whose mind was far above the average of Irish priests, he having received a brilliant education, and travelled over most of the Continent of Europe-(rather an expensive and serious undertaking in those days, when railways and steam navigation were not even thought of). No one, to have witnessed his conviviality, and listened to his humour as he now sat over his glass of punch after dinner, would have imagined him to be a votary to Romanism -in short, his divinity was completely overshadowed by its oft-times more tempting rival, materiality. Father Maguire had the good taste, or perhaps as many would call it, the weakness, not to force upon others his opinons with regard to religious subjects when dining out. Before the French Revolution broke out, he was in Paris as a young priest for the purpose of attending all the erudite lectures of the Sorbonne, and was admitted into the coteries of genius and wit, so much in vogue at that period. His letters of introduction from some of the first families in Ireland, together with

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his handsome presence, and flow of small talk, in which he excelled, soon made him a welcome guest wherever he went. Talleyrand, at that period himself an Abbé, took him by the hand and introduced him to his friends. This gave great prestige to the young priest.

Some years later, when he returned to Ireland, he became chaplain to the O'Neile's father, when he gained that ascendency in the family which he knew so well how to maintain. It was he who undertook to instruct the O'Neile's children, and to correct the deficiencies of their education.

Geraldine, though by no means wanting in intellect, soon renounced all studies and philosophy, on which the priest had tried to fix her attention, in favour of the elegant superfluities of that day, such as revelling in French poetry, and often herself attempting epigrams which were generally failures; and with the musical aptitude peculiar to the Irish of all classes, she improvised many a wild sweet melody, which her harp echoed.

Mary had no particular talent, nor did she feel in want of such, for she possessed a golden heart, that in its goodness and brightness saw everything through the radiance of its own purity.

Catherine devoted all her spare moments to study, for which she showed a great aptitude; she was proficient in both the Latin and Irish languages,—in the latter she invariably addressed the peasantry. She had read and translated many of the old chronicles and ballads of a past age, which Father Maguire had procured for her. She was his favourite pupil, and of all the O'Neile family the one who interested him the most. He had been the family confessor for many years, and it was whispered by some, that he had a powerful influence over the O'Neile, whose opinions were entirely under the priest's subjection. Indeed, many thought there was a slight shade of fear in the deference he seemed to show him, if an O'Neile could ever have been said to have experienced such a feeling; but, poor old man! he

was very much changed from what he had been in former years; poverty and misfortune had done their work with him, and perhaps were he to look too deeply into his own conscience, he might there hear a small accusing voice relating to past times. Yet be it as it might, no one could now look at him in his reverse of fortune, and think of the race he had descended from, and the grand old name he bore, without having the strongest sympathy excited in his behalf.

Poverty is at all times sad and hard to bear, and upon none does it fall with a heavier hand than upon the proud man, for, under its stinging pressure, he too often sits down helpless and crushed-unless, indeed, he be possessed of a powerful will, and a disdain of all human chances and changes.

But to return to Father Maguire. He could talk well and brilliantly upon most subjects, and Lionel Herbert was not a little surprised at the flashes of wit exchanged between him and Catherine. Geraldine's vanity was somewhat wounded, as she watched the distraction of her English cousin, whose attention she could not permanently fix, despite of all her efforts to do so.

Geraldine, as far as outward form went, was lovely, and she knew it too well, but it was the loveliness of a beautiful statue, that pleases so long as the eye rests upon it.

Lionel, as he now gazed upon Catherine's animated expressive countenance, and listened to her ready wit, beheld her in quite another light to what he had done only a few hours before. It might have been a concerted plan between the priest and herself, to show the proud Englishman (as they believed him) that they were not such Goths and Vandals in Ireland as he, in his ignorance of Irish life and habits, might have imagined them to be, or it might have been merely accident. Yet those who best understood Father Maguire's character, could, had they observed him closely that evening, have

remarked a malicious twinkle in the corner of his bright piercing eyes, as he every now and then, in the most innocent manner, looked across the table, while he said

"Well, I must say, that I feel an immense sympathy for the man who can sit down comfortably at his own fireside, or that of his neighbour, and enjoy his glass of punch." Then, turning to Lionel-" I believe, sir, over on the other side of our little green Isle, they don't patronise our 'mountain dew,' as the Irishman poetically designates it? and more the pity, for that same ! You have no idea what a salubrious effect it has upon the mind of us poor sinners-softening it, and giving it a fellow-feeling for all those who are oppressed and unfortunate. Heigho!"

Before Lionel could reply to this sally, which was spoken good-naturedly, Catherine commenced speaking, as if the priest had purposely addressed himself

to her.

"If I were not a woman, I should answer you, Father Maguire, and that, too, on behalf of Mr. Herbert." She slightly bowed to him. "However, as it is, I can only recall to your remembrance the Latin quotation, which, when interpreted in our vernacular, runs-'There is truth in wine.'

She had scarcely finished the sentence, when she observed the uneasy glance with which her uncle was regarding both herself and the priest; then, with a rapid change of feature and voice, she added, turning to Father Maguire—

"Do you remember what a diligent pupil you had in me, when I used to give myself up to Latin and Irish, all the day long?" She sighed, as she said, “Those were happy days."

"Why, Catherine, to hear you speak thus," said her uncle, "one would think that there had been only a certain number of happy days in one's life, and that those were peculiar to childhood alone. That's nonsense, my girl."

"Yet, so I believe, uncle.”

"A child's and a grown person's idea of happiness are very different," said the priest. "Were we to possess what children designate and understand by the name of happiness, to us it would not be such. Call it rather inexperience of all that surround them, for they don't seek to penetrate further than the surface, which in their happy eyes has all the sunlight upon it without its shadows, for an all-wise Providence has willed it thus. Childhood comes to a man only once in his life, and in that brief space, is bestowed upon him the gift of beholding his own innocent, careless, happy self in all beautiful things that surround him; while we of a larger growth, who have learned life's lesson, be it in sorrow or in joy, are not contented with such, for we plunge beneath the surface, and allow the sunshine to close over us.

"Still, Miss Catherine, I should be sorry that this definition should apply to you, or any like you." There was a strong pathos in his voice as he said this to her. "Our happiness, such as it is, mostly lies in our own hands; but, unfortunately, too often we let it slip away from them.”

The general conversation was now broken upon by the O'Neile's asking Geraldine to give them some music. She stood up to comply with a glad smile, for it would give her the opportunity of attracting Lionel's attention to herself; she was annoyed that up to the present time Catherine had taken the lead in the conversation. She knew that Lionel was passionately fond of the harp, and she played with no slight skill.

A woman, if she possesses any grace, never looks to a greater advantage than when seated at the harp. There is at such a moment an inspiration, an attraction about her, that at other times she perhaps fails to inspire. As Geraldine now seated herself, and drew her harp towards her in a graceful, careless manner, which she knew how to render most effective, her ap