little good she's heard, but at the schule, more's the pity; but she's a good girl, and quick at larnin', and she keeps what she hears."

"And the beautiful prayer that He made for us," continued the dying child, as though she were thinking aloud, "Our Father in heaven.' Its good to have a Father in heaven, when I am going to leave my father and mother on earth."

"Wirrastrna! what is it ye would say, core o' my heart?" cried the fruit woman. "Is it dying ye are ? Ye never made ye'r mother sigh for ye, darlint, and will ye lave her now ?"

Her distress was indescribable, and her agitated child in vain endeavoured to console her.

Equally useless were Mr. Bentley's assurances that her violence would hasten the catastrophe which she dreaded. His words were unheeded, and she even turned with impatience from his expostulations. She blamed herself for having been so long blind to the real state of her precious one, on whom she lavished epithets of unbounded affection; and she almost raved against her husband for having helped, by his idleness, to bring such misery upon them. "I did what I could" she exclaimed bitterly, "but he, the spalpeen, the ne'er-do-weel, lived on our earnings, and never did so much as a turn to get his bread."

Mr. Bentley did not leave them till Mrs. Macane's vehement sorrow had spent itself, and she sat on the straw, beside her daughter, sobbing convulsively. As he quitted the room, he was met at the door by a man whom he must have recognised as the father of little Norah, and perhaps he dreaded a fresh burst of the storm which had just subsided, for he re-entered with him. If such was his apprehension he was mistaken. Bridget Macane raised her head as they approached, and then turned away again. No word of explanation was necessary, her husband seemed instinctively to comprehend all. Had he heard

the reproaches which his wife, but a few minutes before had heaped on him, he could not more clearly have understood her feelings; and perhaps, at that instant, his self-accusations were the more severe, because she appeared too much absorbed in her own wretchedness to notice them. His manners betrayed little emotion, but his voice was hoarse and unnatural as he said to Mr. Bentley, who was about to speak to him, "You need tell me nothing, sir, it's myself has brought them to this. The isky-na-vatha* has been the water of death to us."

"Then lave it, father dear," cried Norah, raising herself, her eyes glistening, and a bright smile on her lips, "lave the potteen, and ye'r child will go happy."

It was not in the nature of the warm-hearted and penitent Hibernian to resist the entreaties of his child, aided by the anxious looks of his wife, and the kind but serious arguments of the clergyman, and supported by the silent voice of conviction; and he professed his readiness to sign the Temperance Pledge. "I must lave the drink intirely," he observed, conscious of his own weakness.

Before another hour had passed Neil Macane had pledged himself to abstain for the future, from all intoxicating drinks. "God bless you, father dear, God bless you," murmured Norah gratefully, as he affixed his mark to the paper, for he was unable to write.

"So long as you keep the engagement that you have now made, you may consider me your friend," said Mr. Bentley; "I will not lose sight of you, but will seek some employment which will keep you as far as possible out of the way of temptation.

Norah now claimed their exclusive attention. The temporary strength which had kept her up during the last half hour was fast leaving her, and as she held her parents' hands fondly clasped within her own, she

* Isky-na-vatha, water of life.

begged Mr. Bentley to repeat the Lord's Prayer. She listened attentively as he did so, and when he had concluded, "Our Father who art in heaven," she said, "I shall be there soon." It was very late; the little garret was dark and cold, for the fire had nearly burned out; but they did not perceive it, for they still knelt by the straw pallet; sometimes they spoke in suppressed whispers, but I do not know what they said.

The city clocks struck the hour-ONE, but the three watchers stirred not. At last the minister rose, and said solemnly, "It is all over now." They must have known it before, for the now childless parents scarcely noticed his words, but still bent over the senseless corpse. Their grief was not wild and ungovernable as Mr. Bentley had probably expected. It was deep and quiet, only Bridget moaned like one in great pain. Their true friend still stayed and talked much with them, but they did not seem to hear him, and when he at length left them, they did not observe his departure.

CARLA MEREX.

MY GREAT AUNT'S PICTURE.

Chapter I.

THE following papers were lately put into my hands by an anonymous correspondent, with a request that they might be arranged for the press.

At first sight they appeared to be intended for the perusal of some particular person, but after due consideration I came to the conclusion that, since it was vain to seek for that person, and not less vain to attempt to discover my unknown correspondent, it would be best to throw them loose upon the world to find themselves an owner; therefore, my reader, I offer them to you, or, in the words of the old proverb, "I present you with this cap, and if it fits, I pray you put it on."

H

Many confess (thus the manuscript begins) that they are proud, some will even confess that they are vain, some will sigh frankly over their passionate tempers, and others again will admit that they are of careless dispositions. But who tells, who confesses how mean she is, or how sly, or how curious? Who does this, or could hope for sympathy if she did?

Nevertheless, though such confessions are not sanctioned by custom, there is that within me which so longs to express itself, that I must needs forsake the beaten track of easy acknowledgment. I must leave those faults which no one feels much shame in taking to herself, and confess to you how envious I am; and though I do not expect much sympathy from you, I shall, at least, have the comfort of being understood, since you also, like a captive taken anciently in war are marked in the face as the bondslave of-envy. By that unmistakable mark I know that we both serve the same hard mistress, and that, like me, you have received pain from those pleasures of others which you are not permitted to share.

Now it is a curious fact that you do not consider yourself to be an envious person, and you would be angry and hurt if your friends thought it of you. I did not know till lately that I was envious, and of course I am very anxious to conceal it from my friends, though with you I am not so particular, because our hearts are so much akin that though we may disapprove of, we cannot despise one another.

But let me proceed. Know, then, my envious kinswoman, that I have two maiden aunts, dear and kindly women, and that they live in a delightful cottage near the sea. There is no house to be seen on either hand, and the shore is lonely and beautiful. The house is settled half way down in a scoop of the sloping hills, and from the sea it looks like a pure white egg in a green nest of moss and twigs, for the trees rise behind it, and fern lies around it, and in the dingle below there is a tiny singing brook which the sun never catches sight of all the summer long, so thickly is it roofed over by the trees.

Last August I was invited to stay at this place with my aunts, for the first time since my childhood; when I arrived I was much grown and altered, and a great deal of discussion ensued as to whom I most resembled.

"She has the family features, certainly," said my aunt Mary. "But she is not so much like any of the present generation," added my aunt Phoebe, 'as like the picture of her great aunt Beatrice which hangs over the mantelpiece."

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As she spoke looked up at the picture, and a momentary sensation of pleased surprise stole into my heart. Had I then those delicate eyebrows, that clear cheek, those large thoughtful

eyes? But I had scarce ventured to admit to myself that there was a likeness, when something peculiar in the expression gave me pain. I wondered what it meant; it was not precisely pensive, it was not anxious, it was not penetrating; it might consist of all these feelings, but there was something more besides that I could not fathom.

I looked again. "The expression is yet more like than the features," said my dear aunt Mary, and then they dropt the subject; but I could not dismiss it; and often during the evening, while they talked, sitting one on each side of me, asking after my parents, and my sisters, and some old friends of theirs who lived near my native home, I could not help casting furtive glances at the picture, and always felt both pain and pleasure in the likeness to myself. Once when I looked, the sun, just about to set, had covered it with light, which came in through a sidewindow, and the features, before so quiet and so pale, seemed to flush up with sudden bloom; it did not improve them, for it gave, with the appearance of life that flashed from my kinswoman's eyes into mine, a glance, half reproachful, half regretful, which seemed to say, "You have all the notice, and I hang up here unobserved. Oh, that I could but step down from my frame, and show those doting old women how much fairer I am, and how far worthier of all this fondness and caressing than you are."

I thought this was an odd fancy of mine; yet, when the sun had gone down, and the dusk had hidden my kins woman's picture, I could not but feel glad; and I went on chatting to my aunts till the darkness had covered everything, and the moon had risen, and was hanging like a great lamp over the sea. It was the only lamp we had. My aunts were evidently too much interested to converse again with the grown-up niece whom they had made so much of when a child, and I was so well pleased to find them absorbed in me and my communications, and so delighted to watch the beautiful highway, yellow, and yet wan of hue, which the moon had laid over the leaden-tinted waters, that time was allowed to slip away, and I believe we were all surprised when the maid brought in bedroom candles, and said it was the hour for retiring.

Then we rose up-for we had been sitting before the front windows-and I, in turning, glanced up again at my kinswoman's picture; pale, how very pale, in the moonbeams which had wandered up the vale. Oh, what a look seemed to meet me as I gazed. "Yes," I said to myself, "I know now the true meaning of that expression; if your living face had looked at me thus, I should have known, fair lady, that you were envious of me." My aunts had told me, before we parted for the night, that