her head on her knees; the two younger children kneeling on the straw at the foot of the bed, looking at the corpse; the eldest son leaning against the door-sill, with his hand in his pocket, looking out listlessly on the beautiful morning; and Grace knelt beside the body. She no longer cried aloud, but the tears rolled silently down her cheeks; the large drops one after another poured from her eyes; she took one hand in her's, and gazed at the little pale face before her; and then from time to time she put her other hand on his breast, or raised the closed eyelid, and then moved it quickly away, as the dull, cold eye met her view-that eye which used to smile so lovingly on her. Or she would open his lips; whatever little red was in them once, quite blanched away; and then another passionate burst of inward grief, as she kissed again and again that dear mouth, never more to press her's in answer. At last the mother looked up.

"What's the girl whinin' for?" she asked, harshly. "Will that bring him back?

Arrah, who let the fire out?" she continued, looking round at the hearth. Go along, Grace, and get some kindlin' over at Micky Byrne's; sure we can't stay here in the cowld."

A stifled sob escaped the child; she appeared as if she heard not.

"Will ye go?" said her mother again, imperatively. "God knows the little varmint is no loss, anyhow."

Grace, with a scream of agony, threw herself on the body.

"Ah, woman!" said her husband, "howld yer tongue. The poor gorsoon's gone; let him lie in pace.'

The woman commenced an angry rejoinder, but changed it into her former whine, as a step was heard approaching the door, and a stout, respectable-looking man, followed by young Worrell, passed the boy at the door, and entered the hovel.

"Och! Misther Worrell! Misther Worrell! Misther Worrell !" screamed the woman, rocking herself on the bed-" Och, my poor boy! an' he's gone from us, my fair-haired little child! Oh, what'll I do?-what'll I do? Look at him, Misther Worrell, the little darlint. An' he out lookin' for a bit to ate, the cratur, and nivir kem near us, an' we wondherin what was keepin' him. An'thin, dhrowned in

a bog-hole. Oh, wirrasthrue! what'll become of me at all, at all?"

The eyes of the good man addressed were full of tears, as he turned to the father, and said

"Kennedy, I'm very sorry for you. It's a sad accident; but sure it's the Lord's will. Mrs. Kennedy," he continued, "don't take on so-be resigned to the will of Providence. It was a poor end for the little fellow. And Grace, dear, you have lost your companion. Send her up, Mrs. Kennedy, in the course of the day, to my wife: I dare say she has something for you."

"Thankee, sir," said the woman. May the Lord of heaven power a blessin' on you and on yer family."

"And, Kennedy," continued Mr. Worrell, "you know we must have the coroner here; just form, you know— accidental death, of course. Don't look frightened, Mrs. Kennedy; it's only just a form-necessary, though, in a case of this sort. I'm going down to Escar, and I'll mention it to the police there. Maybe the coroner will be here today; if not, it will be early in the morning. And you'll want a coffin, too, Kennedy: I'll just tell Jem Flynn, as I'm going down, to make one. And, Mrs. Kennedy," he added, going, "don't forget to send Grace down to our house."

"May the poor man's blessin' be wid you this day!" said Kennedy, warmly.

"May God's blessin' rest upon you an' your's for ever!" shouted Mrs. Kennedy after him.

As soon as the footsteps were lost leaving the house, she turned to her husband

"Pather, man, sure you're not goin' to stan' there all day, are ye? Come, start off, agra; go over to Rawson's, an' tell them the story-an' tell it well, mind. Ye'll get yer breakfast, anyway, and yer day's work and dinner, too, I'll go bail. We'll not want you at the 'quest. Come, man, go; we've nothin' worth talkin' of for breakfast here, and ye'll be sure to get somethin' there."

The man in silence took his hat, and went slowly out.

"Come, Grace," she resumed, in a milder tone than before, "dart off to Micky Byrne's for the kindlin'. There, run, and take the pot with you."

As the little girl went, she called her eldest son, and handed him the

sixpence that Grace had brought in the night before.

"Here, Mick avourneen, go up to the shop, and buy a twopenny loaf, a pen'orth of butter, a pen'orth of sugar, three-hap'orth of tay, and a hap'orth of milk; an' don't hurry yourself too much, 'till I send Grace to Worrell's whin she brings in the fire."

Mick departed, and soon after Grace came in with the lighted turf in the pot.

"There, that's a girl," said her mother. "Now go up to Mrs. Worrell, and she'll give ye yer breakfast; an' ax her for a sheet to lay him out wid, an' some candles; an' may be ye'd get a grain o' tay to watch him by. But hurry up now."

The little girl, subdued and silent, did her bidding.

When she was gone, her mother bustled about, laid the dead boy on the bed in the corner, kindled up the fire, got some water, and put it to boil in the old pot; took a dirty teapot from a corner, and a broken cup and cracked bowl, and laid them on a three-legged stool, supported on a sod of turf, in front of the fire. The two little children resumed their place in the chimney-nook, following their mother with their eyes, everywhere she turned.

The water boiled as Mick entered. "Just in time, my darlin', every thing's ready. Where's the tay, 'till I wet it? Draw the stone over and sit down. Begor that's fine sugar; but, be aisy, what sort of butther is this? 'Haith its half suet. Show us the milk an' the bread; but its stale-two days ould I'm sure. Here, alannah, take a bit of stick an' toast a bit. I don't think the stale bread agrees wid me, an the butther's only middlin. Make room for the tay-pot, 'till I put it to stew. Now, Mick a hagur, you must mind and say, whin the crowner comes here, how that Ned wint out in the mornin' to look for his bit, as we were all starvin', and that we didn't see a sight of him 'till they carried him in this mornin'."

"Oh, lave me alone," answered the boy, cunningly; "won't I make a movin' story. Am I to cry ?"

"Ay, a little, but spake plain at first. But if they go to ax ye too many questions, ye must cry so that ye'll not be able to spake."

"That's enough," said he, winking.

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Yesturday mornin'," echoed Peter. "Come now, say it again. When did you see Ned last, Pather?" "Yesturday mornin'." "Katty?"

"Yesturday mornin'," she replied. "Give us the tay, mother," said Mick, beginning to get tired of the instruction.

So she poured out and tasted it.

"That's rail good, faix," she said, sipping it; "an' I'm expecting Mrs. Worrel will give us some more. Be dad we'll make somethin' by Neddy now that he's dead, more than we did when he was alive, at any rate."

And so the mother and son took their buttered toast and tea, with the drowned son and brother lying beside them! And so they joked upon his death the mother and son-and she the cause of it! And so they sat by their little fire, eating their comfortable breakfast, having sent out the father and daughter to beg the meal! And so the mother catechised the children in lying and dishonesty, bringing them up as dark spots to taint the fair face of God's creation!

The coroner came, and the police, and the neighbours, and Mr. Worrell, and young Worrell, and the labourer who found the body, and with some difficulty they collected a jury.

Young Worrell, an intelligent lad of nineteen, was examined, and related that he and a servant boy of his father's had accidentally found the body that morning, as they were going to work; that they had been attracted to the bog-hole by the barking of their little dog, who had found his cap.

And Mick and his mother were sworn, and, with every appearance of bitter grief, deposed that the little boy had gone out to beg on the morning of the day before, and was not seen by any of them till he was brought in lifeless by Worrell,

So the jury considered, and agreed, that the child was returning home after dark, had mistaken the path, and had fallen into the hole; they therefore, after a few moments, returned a verdict of accidental death.

And they all went away, and the family were left alone again with the corpse. The little children again cowered round the fire, and Mick stood in the corner of the chimney nook. And the mother sat over the fire, her elbows resting on her knees, and her hands supporting her chin, rocking herself to and fro. And Grace stood in the far corner, again crying silently within herself. And the solitary candle against the wall shed a dim mournful light through the cabin; and the dead boy lay on the floor where he had been placed for the inquest.

There was the perjured mother that killed her child; who there, before her other children, had sworn to a lie;-the mother that brought them with pain into this world of sin;-the human mother, placed by the Almighty as the natural guide to lead the offspring on the way to heaven;-this mother teaching them the path direct to hell;—the mother, the bane or blessing of the child; for as she is, so will he be.

Grace sat in the corner, still crying; her mother stood up and approached her; she seized her by the shoulder

"Goalong," she said, "an' wash that brother of yours, bad luck to him, and lay him out, and then put on the turnips. Will ye stir?" she continued, pushing her. "Come Mick, agra," said she, as Grace prepared to do what she had told her, "I'm goin' out. Will ye come?" And wrapping a tattered cloak about her head, she left the house followed by her eldest boy. And Grace washed her little brother and laid him out, and lit the other candle Mrs. Worrell had given her; and produced a bit of brown bread, which she divided between Peter and Katty; and put on the turnips, and gave the little things their supper, and put them to bed; and

they went to sleep. She sat by the fire to watch. She was not crying now. She thought, where was her fatherhe was not coming in. He might have fallen into a hole too. And then she cried. Again she thought where

was Ned gone-how did Ned diewould it not be better for her to go with him, away from trouble. And she looked over at the dead boy, and cried again. And her eye rested on the two living children-their eyes shut too, lying without noise. And she thought again, were they not all asleep? and two would awake, but one would sleep on. And so Grace pondered within herself, and cried, and thought, and dosed-then dreamed, and woke to cry again.

At last the door was pushed open, and her brother Mick came in, supporting her mother, drunk, hardly able to walk.

"Ye hell hound-bra-t," she stuttered to Grace; "wha-at are ye d-d-oin' there?" And making a blow at her, she fell on the floor.

Mick lifted her to the bed, and after a few inarticulate words she fell asleep. Mick lay down beside her, and slept too; and the little girl was again alone. Where was her father, she thought— out the whole night. And the wind blew, and the rain pelted against the house, and he came not. Where could he be? And Grace thought on, and cried. The candles burnt down-the wicks grew longer and longer, and the light dim and more dim; and a kind of awe stole over Grace. She felt afraid, she knew not of what. She was very sleepy, too; and there was no room for her on the straw. And she went over to her brother, and stooped to kiss him. How cold were the lips! And she lifted the little body over to the fire, and took his hand from under the sheet, and clasped it in her's, and nestled down on the hearth beside him, and fell asleep-the dead body her companion-the cold clay giving her confidence in the solitude of night!

THE day was just breaking, when Grace awoke. There was her little brother's ghastly face just beside her's. In spite of herself she shuddered, and let go his hand; but then, as if ashamed, she kissed him again and again.

She replaced the body in the corner and glanced at the sleepers. All were silent still! She observed something white amongst the straw near her mother's head; she looked close; it was the cap she had stolen. "Shall I taku

it?" she thought. She put her hand out-no one stirred-she had it. She opened the door gently, and ran out tɔ hide it under a furze-bush. The children soon awoke; her mother still slept heavily on. There were some turnips left since the night before-she heated them for their breakfast.

Mick took his bag and went out. Her mother still slept, and her father came not yet.

And so they waited at the fire. Grace told the children little stories, and they forgot their hunger. And then, as they laughed in their childish glee, she would cry, and point to their dead brother, and they were hushed.

At last her father came; she sprang to meet him, and he stooped and kissed her. A man followed him with a coffin. Grace knew what it was for. She cried again; Ned was going home. They put him into the coffin-they put on the lid.

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"Ah, father, dear!" she cried, rushing to it, "wan look more, just wan." She pushed the lid off, and knelt down, and kissed his face.

“Ned, honey, your goin'; I'll nivir see you again. Ned, achorra, we'll nivir go out again in the mornin' to look for a bit to ate. It's by myself I'll go now. Ned, darlint, ye'll lie aisy-wont ye?" And she smoothed and settled his head. "Och, jewel of my heart, I wish I was with ye."

And with a passionate burst of grief she threw herself on the body. Her father lifted her off; the carpenter put on the lid and nailed it; the noise awoke the sleeping mother; she sat upon the bed and looked on in silence. Her husband approached her.

"Here, Katty," said he, "I'm in work at Mr. Rawson's, and here's somethin' for you," handing her sixpence at the same time.

She took it from him, but said nothing. Kennedy then took his daughter's hand, and followed the carpenter and the coffin out of the house.

The old churchyard was about a mile away, near Hollywood. They found a little grave dug, and Worrell's servant standing beside it; a couple of neighbours went with them; the coffin was put in the ground and covered in. Grace cried in silence. It was all filled up; the sods were laid on the topNed was gone home.

"Wait, then, quite, like good childre, wont yez? an' tell mother that I'll be back soon," said Grace.

"Yis, Grace," replied they.

And Grace got the cap she had hid, and started off for the place where she had been two days before. A brighteyed little girl and smiling boy were playing in front of the hall-door.

"Oh, Charles !" said the former, "there's the little girl was here the day before yesterday. She has no bag today."

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'Well, little girl," said the boy, addressing her, "what do you want?"

"I want to see the misthress, if yo plaze, sir," answered Grace, curtseying. "What do you want with her?" asked his companion.

"I want to tell her something, Miss." "But you know you got a great deal here the other day, little girl," said the boy; "and you ought not to come so soon again.'

"

"I have somethin' to give her," persisted Grace.

"Children, children!" cried a voice from the hall-door, which had just opened. "Charles-Jane! come here!" And the lady of the house came out on the steps. "Well, my little girl, so you want to speak to me.

you to say?"

What have

"One of my caps," she said, "that was stolen! How did you get it?" "Twas me, ma'am, that took it," said Grace, sobbing.

"And what tempted you to take it? This cap could have been no use to you if you were hungry."

"Mother 'ud sell it, ma'am. An' 'twas comin' to the house I took it, afore I knewn you; an' I was goin'

to put it on the hedge afther, an' there was people lookin' an' I could'nt; an' thin I thought it betther to come an' give it to yerself."

"And you came of your own accord? your mother did not send

you?"

"Mother, ma'am! Mother wanted to keep it, but I took it this mornin' whin she was asleep, an' hid it to bring it to you."

And the child looked up into the lady's face, and the latter saw truth stamped in the mournful blue eyes that looked into her's; and a tear quivered on her own eye-lash as she turned towards the house, and called her children.

"Come here, Charles and Jane. You see this little girl. She was here the day before yesterday, as you both know, and received a great deal from

me.

As she was coming to the house on that day, she was tempted to do very wrong-she broke one of God's commands, and stole this cap. She might have kept it without even being suspected of the theft, for we thought that it was the beggarman stole it. Well, this little girl was moved with gratitude towards me, and, of her own accord, brought back the cap to-day. I do not know if she is aware of the great sin of which she has been guilty; but what I wish to call your attention to is, the remembrance of a kindness, and her modesty in confessing her fault. Go, my little girl," she continued, addressing Grace, "go to the kitchen, and I will send you something to eat."

The lady returned to the house with her children, and ringing for the servant, desired him to tell the cook to give the little girl some food, and to let her know when she had finished.

Presently the man entered, saying that the girl wanted to go. "Why, she had not time to eat anything," observed his mistress.

"She hasn't eaten anything, ma'am; she says she wants to take it home." "Come, children, let us go and speak to her."

They found her in the kitchen, tying up some bones and potatoes in an old handkerchief.

And the remembrance of her little brother stole across her mind, and she burst into tears.

"Don't cry, don't cry," said the lady, kindly. "What's the matter?come, now, tell me."

And the voice of kindness went to her heart-how little she knew itand she sobbed more bitterly.

"Come, dear, tell me," said the lady, more kindly.

Poor Grace!-the good lady called her "dear"—her, the poor beggar-girl. And the corresponding chord in her own heart, till then unstrung, answered the tender word! She screamed, as she threw herself at the lady's feet-"Ned, poor Ned, was drowned yesterday, an' berried the day.' She was

an'

choked with sobs. She knelt there-the servants stood round her. There was hardly a dry eye-the children wept bitterly-the good old cook raised her

up.

"There, mavourneen, don't take on So. And your brother was drowned, acushla machree? Is there any more of ye?"

"Two little wans," sobbed the girl. "And, my poor child, you came over here to return my cap on the day your brother was buried," said the lady, actually crying herself.

"Yis, ma'am," answered Grace, not exactly understanding why she should not have come on that account. The poor seldom allow the death of friends to interfere with their occupations.

"Where do you live, and what is your name?"

"Grace Kennedy, ma'am; and I live about four miles from this, beyant Escar, near Mr. Worrell's."

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Margaret," said the lady, addressing her cook, "give her some broken meat and potatoes, and let her go home."

So Grace hurried home, and found her father there, who had just arrived before her. And the children had been left all day by themselves, for their mother had not been home at all; and their fire had gone out; and there they cried all day, cold and hungry.

How their eyes glistened when Grace produced her store. She had not touched a bit herself-she waited to eat with them; so she set to work, and heated some, and the four had a happy, comfortable meal. Mick and his mother arrived late-the latter again drunk. Some brawling and