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THE WIDO IK OSH A NE'S RINT. Whisht, there! Mnry Murphy, doan think m« inssno, Put Fm dyin* ter tell ye, of Widdor O’Shane; HJie live* in tho attic uixt mine, doan ye kuow, An’ dooh the foino w&Hhiu’ f«r ould Mifither Wid nim- chick nor a child tor track in, Her kitchen ia always aa nato as a pin; An’ her cap an’ her apron ia alwaya x that clane— Och, a moighty foino gurrnl ia the Widdor O'Shane. An’ wild ye belave mo, on 8atlmrday night We hoard a rough atip oomin’ over our flight; An’ Mike, mo ould man, he jist hollered to me, “Look out av the door an* seo who it moigkt be.” An’ I looked, Mary Murphy, an* save me if there Wuan’t Thomas Mahono on the uppermost stair (He’s the landlord; yc’vo scon him yerself, wid a cane), An’ he knocked on tho door of the Widdor 0 Shane. An’I whispered to Michael, “Now, what can it mane That his worship is calling on Widdor O’Shanc ?” Hint day comes a Friday wid us, doan yo see, Bo I knew that it wuan’t collectin’ he’d be. “It must be she owes him some money for rint, Though tho neighbors do say that sho pays to tho cint; You take care of tho baby, Michael Brady,” says I, “An’ I’ll papo through tho koyholo, I will, if I die.” The howly saints bliss mo! what Bliudn't I see But the Widdor O’Shane sittin* pourin’ the tea; An' tho landlord wus there, Misthor Thomas Mahone, A-sittln’ one side ov the table alone. An’ he looked at tho Widdor O’Shane, an’ soz ho, -“It’s a privilege groat that yo offer ter mo; For I’ve not once sat down by a fair woman’s side Sinoe I sat down by her that I onoo called me bride. “An’is it ye’re poor now, Wickler O’Shane? Ye’re a daoent woman, both tidy an’ olano; 1 An’ we’re both av us horo in the wurruld alone . Wud ye think of unltlaf wid Thomas Ma¬ hono ?” ,:t * Then the Widdor O’Shauo put the tea kottlo down, An’ she says, “Misther Thomas, yor namo is a crown; .1 take it most gladly"—an’ then me ould mau -Hollered, “Bridgot, oum in hore, quick as yer can.” Bo thon, Mary Murphy, I riz off that floor, An’ run into mo attic an* bolted tho door; An* I boz to mo Michael, “Now, isn’t it maoe? She’ll have no rint to pay, will that Widdor O’Shane,” —Foci's Companion. SANDY’S DIAMOND. “Now, Sandy, it’s your turn; why don’t you read ? have you lost the place?” Sandy straightened the tails of his ragged coat with an air of conscious virtue; he was :not given to losing his plaoe, whatever the others might be. “Now, Judas said this, not because he cared for the poor, but because he was a thief, and had the bag,” he read out in a shrill treble. “It was an awful pity they let him keep the bag, then,” he added by way of comment. “Maybe they’d no ken he was a thief,” suggested his neighbor, who was Sandy’s chief friend and ally; “and may be you wad have helped yonrsel’ a bit now and again, Sandy, if you’d had as good a chanoe.” “Speak for yonrsel’, Sam Knox,” was Sandy’s hasty retort. “I’m no thief, at any rate.” “Boys, attend to the lesson,” inter¬ rupted the teaoher, aud the debate had perforce to be postponed for the present. Sandy marched home after school, swelling with indignant pride, utterly declining Sam’s usual escort The two were friends more from force of circum¬ stances than natural affinity. Both earned a scanty inoome in London, carrying parcels and messages from th« railway to the different quays; bat though they held the same profession, and wore oomradrn to a certain extent, Sandy t>y no means considered Sam in the light of an equal; his clothes were in many degrees more ragged, his shoes a thing of the past, or future, and, in point of family connections—well, there could bo no comparison between Sam’s drunken father and his own thrifty, hard-working mother. Decidedly Sam mast be made to understand that he was not to disparage his superiors in public with impunity. The coolness lasted some days, and might-have lasted much longer, bat for A startling adventure that befell Sandy. Trudging round the edge of the dook at dusk one evening, with a huge package for a coasting steamer, his foot struck against something—something that glit tcred in the dim light. “Just a bit of glass,” he said to himself, turning it over with the toe of his shoe; and then he dropped his burden with a crash, and swooped down upon “his find.” It was a ring, dull and tarnished with mild, but neither crushed nor broken, mid the “bit of glass” was the stone. It gleamed ont like the windows on the op¬ posite shore at sunset. In his younger days, before he became such a practical person, ho had firmly believed that Paradiso lay over there; he knew bet ter now, but for a moment, as it lay on his palm, he almost fancied it must have come from that region. Only for a moment; then Sandy was his oautions little self again. He rolled it up oarefully with the private store of halfpenee that oven his mother, worthy woman, did not know of, shouldered his naokage and delivered it at the tiny booking office at the end of the quay, sturdily argued out the question of an additional penny on aooount of its size with the clerk, and got it, aDd then he betook himself to a solitary comer of the dook wall and sat down behind a sugar cask to consider matters. First and foremost, should he tell his mother? He rather thought not. might inaiat npon delivering it up to tb authorities, and taking the chance of posstble reward; and Bandy had an oeedingly unoomfortable conviction that that was just what be ought to do. Yet he remembered a boy who found & pooketbook on the gangway, and the owner only gave him a shilling for it; and another who found a telescope and got nothing. Sandy felt that fortune lay within his grasp, and that if he had to barter it away for one shilling, or even five, it would be paying too dearly for principles. He had heard of rings being worth hundreds of pounds, and if this was worth but cue —or even, to be safer still, fifty. Tho tide rippled in below his feet unheeded, the long line of gas lamps twinkled like yellow stars in the black, restless river, the keen wind whistled through the rigging behind; Sandy saw and felt nothing, wrapped in blissful visions of that modest fifty. For two whole days he carried the seorot alone, then his responsibility be¬ came too heavy, and tacitly ignoring past differences, he waited on the quay one dinner-hour for Sam Knox, binding him over to strict seoreoy, though on that head he had little fear, for Sam, whatever his failings might be, had never been known to do a shabby thing to a friend. “Sam, I’ve got something to tell you; I’ve had a find.” “One bawbee or twa?” queried Sam, indifferently. “Just wait till you get a sight of it! It’s worth more bawbees than you ever saw all your days.” “So you’re not going to give it up to the authorities ?” Sam asked, curiously, when he had heard the story. “And maybe get nothing at all, like Jem McOulloek,” answered Sandy, shortly. “You’d no do that yourseV, Sam Knox.” “No, Td not,” agreed Bam, frankly; “but you’ve always professed such a lot mova.” A dull red flush crept up to Sandy’s brow. He had not counted upon Sam being sharp enough to view the case in that light. “Anyhow, let ns have a look at it,” went on Sam, magnanimously pursuing that point no further, Behind the sugar-oask, after infinite precautions, the treasure was produced for inspection. “How much do you think I’ll get for it ?” he asked, deferring to Sam’s judg¬ ment for once. He was much older, and might reasonably be expected to have some little experience in valuables —other people’s, if not his own. “I mind of hearing a man say once, that he gave £20 for one not near as big a8 that; but you’ll not get as much, for who’s going to believe you didn’t steal it?’ “Steal it 1” echoed Sandy, in angry dismay. “Aye, but you’ve got to make folks believe your story, and who are you go¬ ing to get to buy it ?” “I thought you might ken of some place,” faltered Sandy, rather crest¬ fallen. “Well, I ken of one or twa. I’ll look out and tell ye in the morn.” And then the conference broke up, and the two went back to their parcels, Sam pondered the matter over as he lounged about the docks that day. Steady work was not his strong point, and the diamond had taken powerful hold of his imagination. He did wish with all his heart it had been his luck instead of Sandy’s to have found it; he felt he could have made far better use of it. “If there was any hope of his sharing it with a fellow, it would be different, but he’ll just keep every penny to him sel*. Serve him right if he went and lost it again,” Over and over that reflection crept up. Sandy had already strayed from the right path for the sake of the iamond - Sam was the next to fall a \j iotim He thought to its fascination, of it hour after hour, till seemed as if he must have it by fair means or foul, and he doubted fair means would avail little with a lad like Sandy. Saturdays were busy days on the quays, and the next day both Sam and Sandy were huriying backward and for¬ ward till after dark. It was a gusty, stormy night, and as Sandy went down one of the gangways on his last journey the steamer gave a sadden Inrch that sent him and his packages flying across the deck; worse still, out rolled the con¬ tents of his pockets, and before Sandy had recovered his feet and his scattered senses the scrap of paper shrouding the precious ring wa» lodged inside Sam’s waistcoat. He happened to have been standing just under the gangway, and lost no time in availing himself of the unlooked-for chance. It was all the work of a minute. Sandy gathered up his property and went back on shore without observing his friend. Sam. fairly glowing with satisfaction at the beautiful way things had arranged themselves, qmetly re¬ tired to the dock wall to congratulate himself at leisure. No more heavy packages to drag np and down those steep bridges, no more snpperless nigh'™ and breakfastless mornings. Sandy had built no taller castles round that dia¬ mond than he was building now. “Sam, Sam !” broke in a pitiful voice, “I’ve been looking everywhere for yon. IVe lost my diamond.” “You’ve what?” cried Sam, with an incredulous stare that reflected credit on his powers of dissimulation. “Lost it—in that boat, and she s away now, and I’ll never, never get it took. It’s hard.” Sandy pnt his head down on the iron rail, and groaned aloud in bitter disap poin foment. Sam looked on in silence; he was naturally a hard-hearted lad, and for a minute the impulse wss strong to give the ring took; the feel of his empty pocketo brought back more prudential considerations. “After all, it’s only what he did him¬ self,” lie argued; “he found it and kept it, and that’s what I’m doing.” He made one or two ineffectual at¬ tempts to console poor, miserable Sandy, and got himself away as speed¬ ily us practicable into a back street, where dwelt a certain German, who kept a kind oi money-lending and gen¬ eral exchange and barter establishment for the benefit of sailors and emigrants. Saturday night was far advanced, and if he, Sam, meant to reap any im m ed i ate benefit from his possession, it was nec¬ essary to lose no time. He slipped softly in, and addressed himself to the proprietor. “I picked up something in the dock to-day, and I wad like to ken the worth of it gin I cared to part with it." “What is it?” demanded the man, briefly. “It’s a ring—a diamond one," an¬ swered Sam, speaking under his breath. “Where is it ?” Sam slowly unfolded the wrappers, and laid it, with a sort of gasp, in the man’s dingy palm. How it glittered in the gaslight! Sam watched it with eager eyes. “A nice thing to have gone and given that away again,” he said to himself. The German looked at the treasure under the gas-jet for a moment, and touched it with his tongue; then ho threw it down on the counter with a sort of laugh. “y-wnonds, indeed f A bit rtf glass !” “It’s no I” ejaculated Sam, with dry' lips. “You’re cheating!” The man knocked it smartly against the iron scales. Alas ! the unfortunate diamond vanished away into dusty pow¬ der. “But the ring—that’s gold l” cried Sam in despair. It was the one last forlorn hope. “Take it away; no one would give you a sixpence for it." &am picked it up without a word. When he got outside he flung it into the nearest gutter. Was it for this he had cheated Sandy, and made himself afraid to meet him—for this? Why conldn’t he have left him to find ont the miserable cheat for himself ? It was the very first time he had ever played a friend a shabby trick, and in wrath and bitterness of spirit Sam registered a solemn resolution that it should be the last. The sight of Sandy’s woe-begone countenance when they met at the school next morning also helped to strengthen it. Sam realized, with a sinking heart, that he wonld never be able to explain to him how little cause for regret he really had. For weeks and months—even years—he might have to listen to the lamentations over that un¬ paralleled loss. They had the conclusion of the Jndas tragedy that morning. The two lads wandered ronnd the quay afterward al¬ most in silence, each privately repenting after his own fashion. “If I had taken that diamond to the station,” soberly remarked Sandy breaking into a long pause, “I might— I might have got three or four pounds for it, instead of just nothing. It served me right. I’m thinking maybe there was some allowance to be made for Jndas. After all, riches are an awful snare—nobody knows till they get them.” “Tney are,” ejaculated Sam, with great fervor. “There's no depending on them, and I’m thinking we’ll be just as well without any.” “Ah, bat you never had a diamond,” retorted Sandy, with a sudden burst of sorrow for his lost treasure. “No, I never had,” was Sam’s truth¬ ful answer. Since 1786 there have been sold to private persons 402 of the islands along the coast oi Maine. They range in siae *~iu 1.000 U* Ifi.Oty* anrea.