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SiTViTWTIWTOIT TFTIWTO A TOT? TO A ?;ißppo dwHJ 11 IwMiiTu MliMoilMU ynMlfi 1111A i’ TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Original For the Southern Literary Gazette. T 0 a MOCKING BIRD. by WM. c. RICHAEDB - love thy day-proclaiming song, That to my half-awaken’d ear, n . w j t h fresh sweetness to prolong, Ti,r music which in dreams I hear — 0r . 1! :e melodies from some sweet lute, “ As if by fairy fingers swept; , r lhe |nw breathings of a flute, S.ibditing me till 1 have wept— 0r j„ my dream have seemed to weep, ,r when thy voice hath broke the spell, I find no trace of tears in sleep,— Moved by the strains I love so well! u, l it is sweet to hear thy lay . When young Aurora proudly flings \ ,rht’s shadows back, and brings the day On gold and purple-tinted wings ; When, through the Eastern portal bright, The Sun advances on his track, L| heaven’s vast concave glows with light, | Till Earth reflects the glory hack : L. a ir is voiced with myriad songs, Which on ti e morning zephyrs float, |> ,t fur the sweetest charm belongs, I Fair mock-bird, to thy varied note ! What moveth thee, sweet vocalist, To mock thy race with tireless tongue 1 \ t thou a senseless parodist ? Hast aught original e’er sung ? o r art thou, as I should suppose, i wit —a satirist ? perchance The Mourns of thy race—who knows ? I think there’s mischief in thy glance, Whene’er 1 catch thy small bright eye Turned on me from the greenwood spray ; IV true, to hear thee sometimes sigh, I’d think thou pinest life away ! Hut when, with sympathizing heart, I list the sadness of thy strain, Thou hast begun another part— And laugliest merrily again ! Perhaps thou art a scholar, learned In all the languages of birds, And now thy gifted mind hast turned To teaching Hedgings avial words: I, ii art—if 1 have guessed the truth, An indefatigable master, For never luckless village youth Had lessons longer set—and faster ! But no 1 I have it now—thou art An actor-bird—and every day, Eehearsest carefully thy part, On some aerial stage to play: Thou hailest of the cotnic genus Thy sole profession is to mock ; And let mo tell thee, bird—between us— Tuou wearest gracefully the Sock: ; and I but find the theatre, The greensward stage where thou dost play, ; leave the world awhile, and there, Full often pass an hour away— To see thee and thy “company” A merry set they are, I ween,) Put forth their powers of minstrelsy, With gentler strains the “acts” between ! And tell me merry mocking bird— If ever on the greenwood stage, Thou mimickest the sounds thou’st heard Below thee, in this noisy age? iDoit show up scenes where men are made To play before the avial throng ? Tetlunks ’(would quite improve thy trade, And vary much thy wondrous song, To “get up” on some rare occasion, A farce, such as “a public meeting, Lshow the interests of the nation,” Or better still, —a great “Lind” greeting. N twit! no twit!” thou answerest, W ell, that is what I quite expected ; liu knowest thine own business best, And would not be for worlds, detected j 0 twitting of thy secret things, T o one impertinent as I; fut it I had a pair of wings— I Id sate my curiosity ; tia, I'll he content to hear I by sweet rehearsals, actor bird ; ii le Fancy makes each note appear, lo mv wrapt sense—a comic word ! -r. irj,„ Os itonj tT'tilrr. From the Dublin University Magazine. GRACE KENNEDY. CHAPTER I. “as on a raw evening in Deeem 183—, just after dusk, that a wild- Mll - haggard man entered a little ’ near the side of a by-road be- II Hollywood and Esear, in the r e s County. ell, what have you got?” cried voice from the interior of the “hidt proceeded from a woman, iiing over a turf fire, burning dim tloTn ‘ho damp of the material “ c eu on it. L 0 nothing?” she asked again, taviug received an answer to her r;‘‘ er query. •Nothing! was the sullen rejoinder, II ‘"an, approaching the fire, drew ‘ en stool to him and sat down ~ sr the ashes; on one side of him ~|ll;d e half sitting, half lying, 1 the corner of the recess in “as the fire, her covering being • fi'fti blanket on her shoulders, 1 r Agged black petticoat about her opposite to her were two little 1 vii. from about three to five years, . I:i ger altogether naked; the other I Lagged piece of linen hanging L' 11 , • both crouching over the burn ’ ‘jt- looking up to the man with p.‘ :u 'h- inquiring eyes. a short silence, the woman . ’I hessod her husband, for such io relation of the parties— did ye get no work?” ..ij e sorra bit.” Asn’t Mr. liawson at home ?” I 1 ® was.” Ip Well?” ‘’ 1 ‘An made no answer,but asked— 'h lere,s the old pot ?” “ (I!ii aii sprang to her feet, and ,j lt . over an old pot, w'ith a trian -1.. i ce broken out at the side. , ( ‘lI, honey,” she said, inasooth s * “ice. I 111:111 P u t his hand in his pocket, 1e ” out a dead fowl, with the neck k imi m mkk mwm m im mn mb mk mb m mm ml iimusii®. twisted. The children uttered a cry of delight. “Here, Father,” said the woman, “go an’ wash the pot, and bring some clean wather out of the hole—half-full, Father.” The urchin darted oft. The man had by this time drawn some turnips out of his other pocket, and handed them to her. “ Yer a good man the day, Father Kennedy. \Y e have something, at any rate.” And she busied herself in cutting up the turnips, and put them and the fowl, unplucked, on the fire, when the boy brought in the pot. “ Tell us, Father, agra, how did ye get it ?” she said putting on more turf, and again cow r ering over the fire. © © “ Let me alone,” he said, harshly ; “ye have it—there ; isn’t that enough for ye ?” “Had Rawson no work?” she con tinued, changing the subject. “ No, he hadn’t; yet he tuk in the two Byrnes last week. He gave me a penny, and tould me to go to the poor house, he added, with a scornful laugh. “ Give us the penny,” she whined, coaxingly; “ it’ll do for male in the mornin’.” lie looked at her for a moment. “ It’s not worth givin’ or houldin’,” he said, as he threw it to her. A noise was heard outside the door. “Here’s the children,” she said. “Let none ot yez say what’s in the pot.” A little girl entered, hardly better dressed than those before described : a ragged cotton frock, with a dirty handker chief round her, was her only covering; her age might be eight or twelve; from the emaciated state of her face—unnat urally pale from the glare of a dim rush-light it was not easy to form an exact idea. Her eyes were blue, her hair light—that colour which deepens to a pretty brown in womanhood. “ Well, Grace, is that you?” said her father—the first uncalled words he had yet spoken. “ Yis, father dear, it’s me. Ah, bud it’s cowld,” she continued, getting be tween the little ones at the fire. “Did ye bring nothin’ wid ye?” cried her mother, sharply. “ It’s down the road,” she said ; “the sack was big, an’ 1 got tired, so 1 left it in the ditch, as 1 seen the light in the house, an’ knew father was here, an’ he’d go back and bring it in. “That 1 will, alannah,” replied the man, rising. “Whereabouts is it?” “Just at the ould mile-stone, this side of the bridge, down in the ditch.” It was speedily brought, and the con tents emptied on the floor. Potatoes and skins of the same, the inside want ing though, turnips, cabbage, bones, meal, and rags tumbled out. “ ’llaith, Grace, you’re a wondher, entirely,” said her mother, in a tone of commendation. “ Ye’ve a good dale, Grace, darlint,” said her father, half mournfully. “An’ didn’t stale a ha’porth there,” cried the little girl. “Ye didn’t stale it; an’ how did ye get all this ? ye bought them, maybe?” —asked her mother, with a sneer. “ No, mother ; I went to a big house a long ways off, an’ the masther seen me first, an’ he brought me in to give me a bit in the kitchin ; and thin the mis thress gave me the old duds, an’ the servants the rest; an’ ” “An’ what ?” said her mother, seeing her hesitate. “An the little one gev me this”— showing a sixpense as she spoke. The mother snatched it from her. “Arrah, Grace, bud yer a rale darlint, the day.” Her father drew her towards him, and kissed her. “ Ye stole nothin’ the day, thin alan nah machree ?” he asked. The girl did not answer; she fixed her large eyes on her father, as if she sought silently to tell him something. The mother turned round— “ Answer yer father, will ye ? —have ye nothin’ more ?” The girl drew out of her bosom a handsome cap, all crumpled. “ I stole this,” she said. The mother attempted to take it also. “ I got it as I was goin’ up to the big house, on the hedge, near the avenue, an’ it belongs to thim, an’ I am goin’ to lave it back to-morrow,” said the girl, eagerly. “Lave it back, indeed?” cried her mother, standing up, and taking it from her. “ A bran new cap, 1 de clare !—the lady’s I’m sure!—lace an’ fine ribbon ! —lave it back ? ’llaith, yer no sich fool.” “ Ah. mother!” pleaded the little girl, “they’re good people—ye would’nt stale from thim yourself; sure they gave me all thim; and there was a poor ould man wint up after me, an’ maybe they’ll think it’s him that took it.” “An’ let thim—who cares?” answer ed her mother, still examining the cap. “ Ah, mother, darlin’! give it to me, an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ as good ; let me give it back to the lady.” “ Divil a fut ye’ll go wid it, there.” “Ye may as well give the child the cap,” said the husband. “ Is it to have me ’rested, and put in jail, ye want, Father ? Arrah, man, are ye a fool, at all, at all ?” This silenced him ; but the child still importuned for the cap, “ Go along wid ye,” said her mother, striking her; “go an’ blow’ the fire, till we ate our supper.” The girl whimpered, and proceeded to her task. Soon after a lad of thirteen or four teen came in, with a sack on his back, which he threw on the floor as he came in. “Well, Mick, acushla, yer welcome. What have ye to-night ?” “ Faix, ye have a bit o’ mate, an’ some praties and cabbage from ould Worrell's garden.” “An’ the mate, Mick, honey, how did ye get it?” “ Oh, give me my supper fust, an thin I’ll tell you.” The pot was boiled by this time, or sufficiently so for them, and they took out the fowl, pulled off the feathers, and divided it between the father and mother, and the boy last named, giving a little bit to the girl, which the father added to from his share. The mother gave the little things some turnips, and told them to roast some potatoes for themselves in the ashes. “ Where’s Ned, 1 wondher?” asked the father. “ Bad luck to him!” said the mo ther; he’s always last, and niver has a ha’porth; and when he does get any thing, it’s into throuble he brings us for it.” “ He’s so small,” urged the girl. “Arrah don’t be talkin’; aint he as big as you ?” said the mother, angrily. The object of the con versation here appeared at the door —a little child of seven or eight years, with only a rag ged pair of trowsers and an old shirt on him. lie stood shivering at the door, with a little bag in his hand, empty ; one would think he had heard what they said. “ Come in, Ned,” said his sister, who first saw him. “ \\ ell,” said his mother, savagely, “where’s what you got ? —where’s your bag ?” “ I couldn't get anything all day,” he whimpered. “Ye dirty vagabone ?” cried his mo ther, starting up, and culling him on the head and ears, “is this the way yer to go on always ? Ye’d rather be fed here for nothin’, an’ do nothin’ for yerself; night after night the old story —the empty bag, an’ ‘1 couldn’t get anything.’ Were ye at Worrell’s?” she asked fiercely. “ 1 was,” he sobbed. “An’ ye could get nothin,?” she again asked. “ Will ye answer, ye blackguard ?” she continued, as the boy cried on. “We niver take there,” he sobbed again. “We!” she repeated after him ; “an’ who’s we, ye omedhaun ? Have I nivir tould you not? And why don’t you take there ?” she continued, mim icking him. “ Because,” said he again, still sob bing, “they give us our dinner.” “And who’s us ?” “ Grace an me.” “Come, my man, none of yer nice humbug; out wid ye, and don’t dar’ come in here without yer share. Come, be oft'.’’ “Ah, mother!” cried Grace, spring ing up, “don’t ax him to go to-night— it’s could, an’ wet —don’t ax him—sure he’s small.” “Lave me alone,” she cried ,her an ger rousing her—“he must go. I’ll tache him to come in again this way. Out, ye cur!” “ Let him ate a bit first, thin, mother jewel.” “ Divil a taste, till he brings his bit. Come, out wid ye !” she shouted. “Arrah, Katty, can’t ye let the child alone?” said her husband. “Ilould yer tongue, and ate yer sup per,” said she; “and don’t crass me, I’d advise ye.” The poor child still lingered at the door—the mother rushed at him, and he disappeared. “ I’ll go wid him,” cried Grace, about to follow. “ Will ye ?” said her mother, giving her a slap. “Go sit down, an’ don’t stir again widout my lave.” The poor little girl sat down in the chimney-nook, sobbing bitterly. “Sure we had enough widout his share,” said the father. “Much ye know,” answered his wife. “ Is that the way ye’d have me bring up the ehildre, in idleness—walkin’ about all day, an’ nothin’ home at night ? I’ll tache them, I’ll engage.” They finished their meal, and lay down on some straw, covering them selves with clothes and rags of blan kets. They all huddled together—the children at their parents’ feet. They slept; Grace was still awake—still cry ing within herself. She got up softly, and looked out; dark as pitch, and no sign of her little brother ! She crouch ed over the remains of the fire, and every few moments went to the door and looked out. Still the absent one came not. Grace looked at the wet turf, smouldering by degrees to ashes; the half-burned sod, growing smaller and smaller, crumbling away—a little red here and there, just showing how it went; at last ’twas out, and then a heap of ashes in its place—now warm, less warm, cold, and colder—till at last as cold as the clay floor it rested on. So Grace watched ; and in her grief forgot to keep alive the embers she had raked up from the ashes; each one burned slowly away and disappeared ; and so she watched, and, watching, slept. She dreamt. She thought her little brother came in, his little bag empty still, but all wet and black ; the water running from his hair, and down his cheeks, and neck, and little shirt—all wet; and still he looked at her, and smiled. She wandered in her dream ; and his darling blue eyes looked into hers, so happily, as they used to do long ago; she wished to speak, but could not; and still he looked at her so pleas antly ; she tried to get up and go to him, and awoke crying. He was not there ; but the first dawn of day streamed through the little win dow. She put her hand where the fire had been—ali heat gone—the ashes cold as stone. She was very cold her herself, She loooked out again for Ned —no sign yet. “ He’ll soon come now,” she thought; for the daylight still came on ; the stars one by one were lost. She went back to the house —all slept still; her mother, roused up by the draught from the open door, muttered to her to shut it, and slept again. Grace closed the door, and, go ing to the little broken window-hole, still watched. Still the day dawns, brighter and brighter still. Two men are coming down the road—they w r alk rather slowly—they are carrying a sack between them; they get over the ditch, into the bog opposite the hovel; one of them is yonng Worrell, and the other his servant-boy. CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, NOY. 2, 1850. “It’s not a sack they have—’tis a boy! —it must be Ned.” Grace rushed out; a few bounds brought her to the men —it was Ned. Oh ! there was a scream, a long, long scream, and then another; and then the pent-up anguish of her soul found vent in tears. It was Ned. poor little Ned ! The men laid him down—he was wet and dirty—his eyes shut —his face wet, and pale, and cold. Foor lit tle boy—he was quite dead. And the little girl knelt by his side, and held his moist hand so cold, and kissed the dirt from his lips, and called for Ned, “her brother, alannah machree !” “her brother jewel!” “her darling!” but Ned awakened not; and the men stood by and wiped the corner of their eyes with their coat-sleeves. The father had come out and the Guest boy ; *he former ran up and looked at the corpse —he said nothing; he raised it in his arms and bore it to the house ; his wife still lay asleep; he laid the body on the floor. “ Get tip !” he said to her, shaking her arm. “ Let me alone, will yez?”’ she cried, half asleep. “ Get up !” he said, sternly, taking her in his arms, and putting her in a sit ing posture. “Arrah, bad luck” She stopped, her eyes opened. There was the corpse at her feet, and the circle round it in silence. She burst into a loud cry, rocking herself to and fro. “We found him in a bog-hole near our house,” said young Worrell, as he went away. CHAPTER 11. There they were : the father, with his arms folded leaning against the wall, near the fire-place, looking with a stare of vacancy on the face of his dead child; the mother, still sitting on the bed, whining, and rocking herself, with 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 hers, 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 lit tle red was in them once, quite blanch ed away ; and then another passionate burst of inward grief, as she kissed again and again that dear mouth, never more to press hers 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 eowld.” A stifled sob eseaped 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. “ x\h, woman !” said her husband, “ howld yer tongue. The poor gor soon’s gone ; let him lie in pace.” The woman commenced an angry re joinder, but changed it into her former whine, as a step was heard approaching the door, and a stout, respectable-look ing man, followed by young Worrell, passed the boy t,t the door, and enter ed the hovel. “ Och ! Misther Worrell! Misther Worrell ! Misther Worrell!” scream ed the woman, rocking herself on the bed—“Och, my poor boy ! an’ he’s gone from us, my fair-haired little child! O, what’ll I do?—what’ll Ido ? Look at him, Misther Worrell, the little dar lint. An” he out lookin’ for a bit to ate, the cratur, and nivir kern near us, an we wondherin what was keepin’ him. An’ thin’ dhrowned in a bog-hole. O, 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 contin ued, “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 : 1 dare say she has something for you.” “ Thankee, sir,” said the woman.— “May the Lord of heavenpporerw r er a bles sin’ on you and on yer family.” “ And, Kennedy,” continued Mr. Worrell, “you know we must have the coroner here; just a 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 to-day; 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 dowm 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’ yours forever!” shouted Mrs. Ken nedy after him. As soon as the footsteps w T ere lost leaving the house, she turned to her hus band— “ Father, 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, any way, and yer day’s work and dinner, too, I’ll go bail. We’ll not waut you at the ’quest. Come, man, go ; we’ve : nothin’ worth talkin’ of for breakfast here, and yell be sure to get somethin’ there.” The man in silence took his hat, and went slow ly out. “ Come, Grace,” she resumed, in a milder tone than before, “ dart oft’ 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 be fore. “Here, Mick avourneen, go up to the shop, and buy a twopenny loaf, a pen’- ortli of butter, a pen’orth of sugar, three hap’orth oftay, an i a hap-orthof 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 mo ther. “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 hur ry up now.” The little girl, subdued and silent, did her bidding. When she was gone, her mother bustled about, laid the dead body 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 lit tle 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 it’s stale—two days ould, I’m sure. Here, alannah, take a bit ol stick an’ toast a bit. 1 don’t think the stale bread agrees wdd me, an’ the butther’s only middlin. Make room for the tay-pot, till I put it to stew. — Nowq 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 star vin’, and that we didn’t see a sight of him till they carried him in this mornin’.” “O, lave me alone,” answered the boy, cunningly ; “won’t I make a mo vin’ story. Ain Ito cry ?” “Ay, a little, but spake plain at first. But il they go to ax ye too many ques tions, ye must cry so that ye’ll not be able to spake.” “ I hat’s enough,” said lie, winking. “ An’,ehildre,” she continued, turning to the little ones, “ was Ned here last night ?” “ Yes, mother,” said they both. “No he wasn’t!” she shouted. “ Now answer me, was Ned here last night ?” “No he wasn’t,” said they hesita tingly. “When did yez see him last ?” “1 seen him ” said Feter. “ Yesturday mornin’,” suggested his mother. “Yesturday mornin’,” echoed Peter. “Come now', say it again. When did you see Ned last ?” “Yesturday mornin’.” “Katty?” “ Yesturday mornin’,” she replied. “ Give us the tay, mother,” said Mick, beginning to get tired of the in struction. So she poured out and tasted it. “ That’s rail good, faix,” she said, sip ping it; “an’ I’m expecting Mrs. Wor rell 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 drown ed 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, hav ing sent out the father and daughter to beg the meal! And so the mother catechized the children in lying and dishonesty, bringing them up as dark spots to taint the fair face of God’s cre ation. 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 difficul ty 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 w r ere 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 life less 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, af ter a few’ moments, returned a verdict of accidental death. And they all went away, and the family w'ere left alone again with the corpse. The little children again cow - ered around 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 sup porting her chin, rocking herself to and fro. And Grace stood in the far cor ner, again crying within herself. And the solitary candle against the vvall 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 sw'orn 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 her offspring on the way to heaven ; —this mother teach ing 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— “Go along,” she said, “an’ wash that brother of yours, bad luck to him! and lay him out, and then put on the tur nips. Will ye stir?” she continued, pushing her. “Come Mick, agra,” said she, as Grace prepared to do w hat 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 Grpce washed her little brother and laid him out, and lit the other candle Mrs. Worrell had given her; and produeed a bit of brown bread, which she divi ded 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 w'as not cry ing now'. She thought, where was her father—he 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 die—would 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 eyes rested on the two living children—their eyes shut too, lying without noise. And she thoughtagain, w'ere they not all asleep? and two would awake, but One would sleep on. And so Grace pondered within herself, and cried, and thought end dozed—then dreamed, and woke to cry again. At last the door was pushed open, and her brother Mick came in, sup porting her mother, drunk, hardly able to walk. “ Ye hell-hound —bra—t,” she stut tered to Grace ; “ wh—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 littlebody over to the fire, and took his hand from under the sheet, and clasped it in hers, 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! CHAPTER 111. The day was just breaking, when Grace awoke. There was her little brother’s ghastly face just beside hers. 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 mo ther’s head ; she looked close; it was the cap she had stolen. “ Shall I take it ?” she thought. She put her hand out —no one stirred—she had it. She opened the door gently, and ran out to hide it under a furze-bush. The chil dren 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 cof fin. Grace knew what it was for. She cried again ; Ned was going home!— They put him into the coffin—they put on the lid. “ Ah, father, dear !’’’ she cried, rush ing to it, “wan look more, just wan.” She pushed the lid oft’ 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 some thin’ for you,” handing her a sixpence at the same time. She took it from him but said noth ing. 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 neigh bours 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 top — Ned was gone home. “ Now, Grace,” said her father, “ I must go to my work. Go home to yer mother, an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ in the evenin’.” When Grace returned to the house her mother was not there. “ Pather,” she asked, “ where’s mo THIRD VOLUME-NO. 27 WHOLE NO 127. therf’ “ Gone to the shop,” answered he “for bread for us; Katty an’ me is to wait here till she conies.” “ Wait, then, quite, like good child re, 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 bright eyed little girl and smiling boy were playing in front of the hall-door. “O, Charles !” said the former, there’s the little girl was here the day before yesterday. She has no bag to day.” “ W ell, little girl,” said the boy, ad dressing her, “what do you want ?” “ 1 want to see the misthress, if ye plaze sir,” answered Grace curtseying. “What do you want with her'?” ask ed his companion. “1 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.” “1 have somethin’ to give her,” per sisted Grace. “ Children, children !” cried a voice from the hall-door, which had just open ed. “Charles—June! come here!” And the lady of the house came out on the steps. “Well, my little girl, so you want to speak to me. What have you to say ?” “Not to them,” said Grace, colour ing, and pointing to the children. “ Children go into the hall for a mo ment. Well, now, what do you want?” “Ye gave me a grate dale, lady, dear; and—aud—here’s this,” she added, bursting into tears, and pulling the cap from her bosom. The lady took it. “ One of my caps,” she said, “ that was stolen ! llow 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 of no use to you if you were hungry.” “ Mother ’ud sell it, ma’am. An’ ’twas cornin’ to the house 1 took it, afore 1 knewn you; an’ I was goin’ to put it on*the hedge afther, an’ there was people lookin’, an’ I couldn’t; an’ thin I thought it better 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 la dy’s face,and the latter saw truth stamp ed in the mournful blue eyes that look ed into hers; and a tear quivered on her own aye-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 shs 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 w'ithout 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. 1 do not know if she is aware of the great sin of which she has been guilty ; but what 1 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, ad dressing 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 ser vant, 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 any thing,” 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, ty ing up some bones and potatoes in an old handkerchief. “ Why won’t you eat anything, my poor girl ?” asked the mistress of the house. “Ah, lady, I’m not hungry, an’ it’s late, an’ a far way off, an’ an’ ” 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 it—and 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 vestur day, an’—an’—berried the day.” She was 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, ac tually 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 Es car, near Mr. Worrell’s.” “ Margaret,” said the lady, address- ing 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 mo ther 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 \\g||k and heated some, and the four haenrhappy comfortable meal. Mick and his mo ther arrived late—the latter again drunk. Some brawling and abuse took place, until she was at last persuaded to goto bed. And Grace lay down be side her little brother and sister, and slept more happily than she had done for some time. To return to the family who had been so kind to her. The lady whose cap she had returned was wife to a Mr. Saunders, agent to a considerable property in the neigh bourhood. Little Grace had excited a warm in terest in Mrs. Saunders’ heart. The children had become quite fond of her, and eager to learn how her little broth er was drowned. As the family sat round the fire, af ter dinner, she mentioned the circum stance to her husband. “I do not think,” she continued, “that it was an honest principle which in duced her to return the cap, so much as a fine feeling of gratitude, which would not allow her to injure one who had been kind to her ; but it is a fine noble nature on which to graft good princi ples. Do, dear John, let me try an experiment with that little beggar-girl. Let me take her from her poverty, and bring her up as a servant, say, and see what that fine disposition will be with education. The expense will not be great as she is quite old enough to be useful in many ways in the house.” “Oh, do, papa,” cried Jane, “and I will hear her lessons.” “I see no objection to your plan, El len, if you wish,” answered Mr. Saun ders ; “but 1 would recommend you to make some inquiries relative to her pa rents and their character. Where does she live ?” “ Beyond Escar,” she said, “ near a Mr. Worrell’s.” “Oh, I know Worrell very well; he is a most respectable man, and will, I dare say, be able to give us every in formation. 1 have some business in Hollywood to-morrow; 1 will drive you round by Escar, if you wish, and you can ask Worrell all about her.” “ That will do exactly, John,” said the lady as she left the dining-room. The next day was wet, greatly to the disappointment of the children; but the day after the sun shone out beauti fully, aud the whole party set out on the car. Mr. Saunders did his business in Hollywood, and then turned to go hoipe by the Escar road. They learn ed trom Mr. and Mrs. Worrell a full and true account of little Ned’s death, and also the cause of it, as appeared on the inquest. Mrs. Worrell was loud in her praise of Grace’s disposition, say ing, what a pity it was that she had such a bad example before her. “ The father’s good enough,” said her husbund, “if he had work, but the mo ther’s a terrible bad woman. It was only the other night—the very night the little boy was buried—that I saw her dead drunk at the shop.” “ Shall we venture to rescue this child from such depravity?” asked Mrs. Saunders of her husband. “ It will be hazardous,” he replied. “We can see them, however. Where is their house, Mr. Worrell?” “ Why, sir, it hardly deserves the name of a house. They live in a little hovel about a hundred yards off the road to Escar. I will go with you and show it.” “ Oh, pray do not think of it,” said both lady and gentleman ; “send a boy wi s h us ;it will do quite as well.” “ Well, ma’am, if you’ll allow me I’ll go myself, the boys are all at work, and I’ve nothiug particular to do ; and, to tell you the truth, 1 am rejoiced that you are going to do something for our little favourite, Grace, for she has real ly ideas above the rest.” So they set out towards Kennedy’s abode, accompanied by the good-heart ed farmer. As he walked by the side of the car, Mrs. Saunders told him how Grace had attracted her notice. “ That is just wdiat I and my wife have observed in her,” said Worrell— “ a warm affection, and great thankful ness for whatever little kindness is done to her.” They approached the hovel; it was a desolate-looking place; the straight road on for a long way, and on each side bog and heather; nothing to break the eye but the black turf-clamps here and there. “There’s the honse,” said Mr. Wor rell, pointing in to the right off the road. “That ?” said Mrs. Saunders, as they looked towards what appeared at the distance only a raised bank. “Is it pos sible that human beings live there ?” Yet so it was. Half stuck against a turt bank, a little raised above it, were the walls forming the hovel in which the Kennedys dwelt; a hole in the top for a chimney, and the door not above four feet high, with a little hole in one side for a window, the entire not higher than six feet, roofed with large sods taken from the bog; all round the house bleak and cold; hardly a path to it. “And here live beings such as we are,” said Mrs. Saunders, turning with a tearful eye to her husband—“ Chri stians 4 with the same feeling, affections, and perhaps talents, that we have if they were only cultivated ; and look— such a wretched, wretched hovel! I could not imagine anything worse; and so dreary and cold all round. O, does it not teach us to value what we have, when we not merely think of, but look on the misery of others ! Dear John, I should so like to go up to the house.” “ My own love, it is very wet and dirty ; you would be sure to catch cold.” “ But I have strong boots on. Mr.