and the end of it would be, I 'd lose the agency, and you would n't have those pleasant little bills for the tenantry,—eh. Fin?"

"Whisht! he's waking now. Well, sir; well, Mr. Burke, how do you feel now? He 's off again!"

"The funeral ought to be on a Sunday," said Basset, in a whisper; "there 'll be no getting the people to come any other day. He 's saying something, I think."

"Fin," said my father, in a faint, hoarse voice,—"Fin, give me a drink. It 's not warm!"

"Yes, sir; I had it on the fire."

"Well, then, it 's myself that 's growing cold. How 's the pulse now. Fin? Is the Dublin doctor come yet?"

"No, sir; we 're expecting him every minute. But sure, you know, we 're doing everything."

"Oh! I know it. Yes, to be sure, Fin; but they 've many a new thing up in Dublin there, we don't hear of. Whisht! what's that?"

"It 's Tony, sir,—Tony Basset; he 's sitting up with me."

"Come over here, Tony. Tony, I'm going fast; I feel it, and my heart is low. Could we withdraw the proceedings about Freney?"

"He 's the biggest blackguard—"

"Ah! no matter now; I 'm going to a place where we 'll all need mercy. What was it that Canealy said he 'd give for the land?"

"Two pound ten an acre; and Freney never paid thirty shillings out of it."

"It's mighty odd George didn't come over."

"Sure, I told you there was two feet of snow on the ground."

"Lord be about us, what a severe season! But why isn't Tom here?" I started at the words, and was about to rush forward, when he added,—"I don't want him, though."

"Of course you don't," said the attorney; "it's little comfort he ever gave you. Are you in pain there?"

"Ay, great pain over my heart. Well, well! don't be hard to him when I 'm gone."

"Don't let him talk so much," said Basset, in a whisper, to the doctor.

"You must compose yourself, Mr. Burke," said the doctor. "Try and take a sleep; the night isn't half through yet."

The sick man obeyed without a word; and soon after, the heavy respiration betokened the same lethargic slumber once more.

The voices of the speakers gradually fell into a low, monotonous sound; the long-drawn breathings from the sickbed mingled with them; the fire only sent forth an occasional gleam, as some piece of falling turf seemed to revive its wasting life, and shot up a myriad of bright sparks; and the chirping of the cricket in the chimney-corner sounded to my mournful heart like the tick of the death-watch.

As I listened, my tears fell fast, and a gulping fulness in my throat made me feel like one in suffocation. But deep sorrow somehow tends to sleep. The weariness of the long day and dreary night, exhaustion, the dull hum of the subdued voices, and the faint light, all combined to make me drowsy, and I fell into a heavy slumber.

I am writing now of the far-off past,—of the long years ago of my youth,—since which my seared heart has had many a sore and scalding lesson; yet I cannot think of that night, fixed and graven as it lies in my memory, without a touch of boyish softness. I remember every waking thought that crossed my mind: my very dream is still before me. It was of my mother. I thought of her as she lay on a sofa in the old drawing-room; the window open, and the blinds drawn, the gentle breeze of a June morning flapping them lazily to and fro as I knelt beside her to repeat my little hymn, the first I ever learned; and how at each moment my eyes would turn and my thoughts stray to that open casement, through which the odor of flowers and the sweet song of birds were pouring, and my little heart was panting for liberty, while her gentle smile and faint words bade me remember where I was. And then I was straying away through the old garden, where the very sunlight fell scantily through the thick-woven branches, loaded with perfumed blossoms; the blackbirds hopped fearlessly from twig to twig, mingling their clear notes with the breezy murmur of the leaves and the deep hum of summer bees. How happy was I then! And why cannot such happiness be lasting? Why can we not shelter ourselves from the base contamination of worldly cares, and live on amid pleasures pure as these, with hearts as holy and desires as simple as in childhood?

Suddenly a change came over my dream, and the dark clouds began to gather from all quarters, and a low, creeping wind moaned heavily along. I thought I heard ray name called. I started and awoke. For a second or two the delusion was so strong that I could not remember where I was; but as the gray light of a breaking morning fell through the half-open shutters, I beheld the two figures near the fire. They were both sound asleep, the deep-drawn breathing and nodding heads attesting the heaviness of their slumber.

I felt cold and cramped, but still afraid to stir, although a longing to approach the bedside was still upon me. A faint sigh and some muttered words here came to my ear, and I listened. It was my father; but so indistinct the sounds, they seemed more like the ramblings of a dream. I crept noiselessly on tiptoe to the bed, and drawing the curtain gently over, gazed within. He was lying on his back, his hands and arms outside the clothes. His beard had grown so much and he had wasted so far that I could scarcely have known him. His eyes were wide open, but fixed on the top of the bed; his lips moved rapidly, and by his hands, as they were closely clasped, I thought it was in prayer. I leaned over him, and placed my hand in his. For some time he did not seem to notice it; but at last he pressed it softly, and rubbing the fingers to and fro, he said, in a low, faint voice,—"Is this your hand, my boy?"

I thought my heart had split, as in a gush of tears I bent down and kissed him.

"I can't see well, my dear; there's something between me and the light, and a weight is on me—here—here—"

A heavy sigh, and a shudder that shook his whole frame, followed these words.

"They told me I wasn't to see you once again," said he, as a sickly smile played over his mouth; "but I knew you'd come to sit by me. It 's a lonely thing not to have one's own at such an hour as this. Don't weep, my dear, my own heart's failing me fast."

A broken, muttering sound followed, and then he said, in a loud voice; "I never did it! it was Tony Basset. He told me,—he persuaded me. Ah! that was a sore day when I listened to him. Who 's to tell me I 'm not to be master of my own estate? Turn them adrift,—ay, every man of them. I 'll weed the ground of such wretches,—eh, Tony? Did any one say Freney's mother was dead? they may wake her at the cross roads, if they like. Poor old Molly! I 'm sorry for her, too. She nursed me and my sister that's gone; and maybe her deathbed, poor as she was, was easier than mine will be,—without kith or kin, child or friend. Oh, George!—and I that doted on you with all my heart! Whose hand's this? Ah, I forgot; my darling boy, it's you. Come to me here, my child! Was n't it for you that I toiled and scraped this many a year? Wasn't it for you that I did all this? and—God, forgive me!—maybe it 's my soul that I 've perilled to leave you a rich man. Where 's Tom? where 's that fellow now?"

"Here, sir!" said I, squeezing his hand, and pressing it to my lips.

He sprang up at the words, and sat up in his bed, his eyes dilated to their widest, and his pale lips parted asunder.

"Where?" cried he, as he felt me over with his thin fingers, and drew me towards him.

"Here, father, here!"

"And is this Tom?" said he, as his voice fell into a low, hollow sound; and then added: "Where's George? answer me at once. Oh, I see it! He isn't here; he would n't come over to see his old father. Tony! Tony Basset, I say!" shouted the sick man, in a voice that roused the sleepers, and brought them to his bedside, "open that window there. Let me look out,—do it as I bid you,—open it wide. Turn in all the cattle you can find on the road. Do you hear me, Tony? Drive them in from every side.