thing moaned piteously. Catherine remarked that the knee joints were broken, and that the feet hung lifeless on her arm. Without delaying an instant, she placed the child in the arms of its mother, begging of her to keep it perfectly still, till she should return with the doctor. Then, with a quick firm step, and betraying no emotion, except in the tearful eye, she jumped upon the car, after having exchanged a few words with her uncle, and disappeared, but not before Lionel (who, up to the present, seemed only conscious of Geraldine's anxiety and nervousness, at the unlooked-for catastrophe) darted forward, and politely insisted upon Catherine's allowing him to do her errand-pleading that he would be sure to find the doctor's abode. She listened patiently till he had finished speaking, then, with a rapid movement of her hand, she waved him off, saying, "that she was accustomed to driving and riding alone, and that her cousin and uncle would have more need of his services than she should." There was something so peremptory and proud in her glance, as she addressed him, that he could only bow, and retire.

During the half-hour that elapsed since she drove away, he kept continually running backwards and forwards from the cabin to the road, to look for her reappearance, but, to the astonishment of all, the doctor arrived on horseback alone. He said that he had encountered Miss Catherine as he was in the act of leaving his house, on his round of visits, that in a very few words she had acquainted him with the sad event, adding that she was going on to the Court, in order to supply herself with a few necessaries for the suffering child, and that she should return immediately.

He made them place the child upon the table, then examined the poor mangled body.

After a long and close investigation, he declared that the spinal bone and the limbs were dreadfully fractured. He did not think the child could live through the night, and, under the painful circumstances, he con

sidered it rather a blessing than otherwise. Upon hearing this, the young mother, whose only child it was, instead of trying to occupy herself by administering to its comfort, as far as lay in her power (with the uncontrolled and reckless energy, that forms so strange a part of the Irish character), threw herself, rather than sat, upon a rickety old stool, and set up a heartrending wailing and lamentation for her child; calling him by all the names of endearment she could think of, and, every now and then, relating with graphic clearness all his winning ways and good qualities. never once, through all her grief and excitement, casting one reproach, or accusing the authors of it, though they stood there without having the courage to offer any consolation to the wretched mother, who was soon to be left childless. It was too shocking, too heart-rending, for even the formality of offering comfort or hope.

Yet,

The sound of wheels was now heard, and the next moment Catherine entered, with a large parcel in her hand, followed by Father Maguire, the latter making the sign of the cross, and repeating a prayer half aloud.

The mother no sooner beheld the priest, than she jumped up, and, for the instant, forgetting her grief at his presence, and bowing low before him, made a passage for him through the crowd, that had already assembled, till they both stood beside the still breathing child.

"Ochone! yer Riverence, and shure if he could only hear the sound of your blessed voice, it's himself he'd be again. Spake to him, yer Riverence-only spake to him! Shure Martin was always a favourite wid yer Riverence."

Then, bending down over the almost senseless thing, she whispered to it-" Martin, alanna, shure an it's his Riverence, Father Maguire, who has come all the way to see you, honey, and, it may be, to send your sowl to glory.' At the thoughts which this last word suggested, the mother's grief began anew.

The boy, for a few seconds, as if conscious of the priest's presence, raised his languid eyes to his, even in the fading light of coming death, with an intense look of reverence and gratitude that was beautiful to behold. The mother gave a long, loud cry of joy, as she watched it

"Oh, the blessed miracle! He recognised his Riverence-shure he smiled upon him, half angel as he is already that's a great comfort to me, anyhow."

Catherine approached with a bundle of old linen that she had taken from the parcel, and gave it to the doctor to wrap the child in, instead of the dirty old rags which were thrown over it. The mother remained perfectly helpless, after having been told that the boy had only a few hours to live. Catherine decided upon staying with her till all was over.

Indeed, this office, that might have been painful to others, was welcome to her, for it made her forget her own unhappy thoughts, and her fatal foreshadowing of evil—how fatal, has been seen by the sad occurrence of a few hours back. Would she be believed now—or would she be looked upon with dread, for the misfortune that it was her destiny to foresee, yet not prevent?

This unhappy accident, dreadful as it was in all its details, was but a shadow to the one that she knew was hovering over those nearest and dearest to her; and yet, she must not, she dare not speak-the priest had forbidden her.

She prevailed upon her uncle to return home, and leave her there till morning. At first he felt disinclined to grant her request; he looked at her pale, sorrowing face, and thought how young she was to undertake so much, but, as he remembered her energy of character and self-abnegation, he consented.

She wondered if he remembered her warning of that morning, and whether he would mention it now; but he seemed to have forgotten all about it, and, kissing her affectionately upon the forehead, he turned to go.

The rest of the family had nearly all the time remained quite close to the door. As the O'Neile joined them, they asked if Catherine did not intend returning with them. He replied in the negative. Geraldine, taking

it as a matter of course, urged her father to leave the abode of mourning, as she did not feel very well, after the shock that her nerves had sustained that evening. Indeed, all colour had left her face, and the beautiful blue eyes had a nervous, frightened look in them. She was placed upon the car, when Lionel, in some surprise, inquired if it would not be better to leave some one to watch over Miss Catherine O'Neile? His English notions of propriety were shocked at the mere idea of leaving a young lady, without any of her friends near her, in a poor peasant's hut, with a dying child. The O'Neile only smiled at his fears, while he said—

"Ah, I see, Lionel, you have penetrated but little into Irish life, or you would have no anxiety as to my niece's safety anywhere within a hundred miles of us here. I can tell you that in that poor cabin she is as protected, and as sacred as she would be at home, and, for that matter more worshipped too, not that she values that, or anything beyond the good and comfort she can bring with her. All those poor, rough peasants you see in there, are truer and nobler in heart than you imagine."

"I am perfectly aware of that, Sir. Pray do not misunderstand me upon that point. I know that Miss Catherine O'Neile is perfectly safe, as far as any personal insult or danger goes. Still, the scene is rather a rough and unseemly one for a young lady, not to say anything of the language she must necessarily hear, beside many other objectionable things. I have heard of Irish gatherings, and Irish wakes, and the recklessness and inebriety into which they plunge upon like occasions. And I only conclude that, were she my sister, I should rather shield her from such contact."

"In England it may be all very well, my boy, to

observe the like, but you must surely know that there is an immense difference between the English and Irish peasant. Not that I mean for a moment to disparage the first mentioned, for I know them to be steadier, and more industrious, and painstaking, than our rascals, who have the genius of leaving everything to take care of itself, and who have only their natural eloquence, wit, and humour to recommend them, and, if I may say it, a chivalrous instinct that never fails them when occasion requires. So I trust, Lionel, that I have now eased your mind with respect to Catherine, who will return without contamination of any kind, when her services can be of no further avail. I am proud of her, Sir; she is a golden girl! and more than gold to me, for its value could not purchase such another Catherine!"

This was said as they were nearing home, and without any further comment from Lionel. He already was aware of the heart-felt praise in which the old man loved to indulge, when his favourite Catherine was the subject.

As soon as the family had taken their departure, Catherine went to the mother and tried to prevail upon her to leave the child, over whom she kept groaning in utter helplessness, and every now and then deplored the fact, that the child would not make a "purty corpse," in which regret she was seconded by most of her friends. For the next best thing to wishing the deceased in glory, is to have a "purty corpse," as they express it in Ireland. One old crone said

"Shure the Lord be praised, anyhow! but if the cratur had met his death in any natural way, than that which has taken all the beauty out of it intirely,-intirely, shure it's meself would be thankful for that same. But my heart is big when I think of the matter, and see wid me two eyes her only child disfigured and spoilt, just as it is going to die,