goes to tell their padereenes, on Patricksmas day. It's the very self same spot where St. Patrick stood, when he called all the snakes and toads, and varmint of all sorts, up the one side, and bid them, and their heirs for ever, go down the t'other intil the sea, and be aff till Inglant; and that's the rason the folks over the water have been so hard with us, ever since that blessed day, no blame to you, Miss." "And what's that mountain, shaped like a sugar loaf, more to the south?" "I don't know what name the quality give it, Miss; but we semples call it, Altoir na Griene[2], the name they say it had in ould times, afore St. Patrick stood on the other mountain."

"Do you see that ould castle there, over aginst ye, in the lake? That's where the family used to live, afore the new house was built, seventy year agone next Hollontide; and now the good people dance in it every moonlight night." "And, pray, who are the good people?" "The little people, Miss, the fairies.—Many's the time Judy Maloony sees them chasing each other, when they slide down the moon beams, to play swing swang on the stalks of the ivy leaves.—And, she says, they sail across the lake in butter cups, to the lavender hedge in the garden, when it's in flower, to make themselves caps and jackets; and she gathers the thistle's beard, to sarve them for threads, afore the sun sets, and as sure as you live, there's never a bit of it there in the morning.

"Do you see that big stone, Miss, a little up the mountain there? That by the side of the stream they call the goulden river; and that's the place the boys and girls sit, of a summer's evening, to steal unknownst upon the Loughrie men—ould men, about as big as my hand, looking as sour as you plase; but if you'll thrape it out to them, ye won't let them aff when ye catch them—they'll show you a power of gould they've hid in under the earth."

Adelaide, though highly amused herself, thought she would give audience to Jarge another time, not thinking his conversation very edifying to Caroline, who, with "locks thrown back, and lips apart," was eagerly listening to every word he said; and therefore proposed returning home. But Jarge, looking much disappointed, said,—"Och! and won't ye be plased just to step intil the gardin? it's in iligant order for ye'z just now; I doubt ye'll never see it as nate again." Accordingly they were ushered into a walled garden, three Irish acres in extent, well stocked with vegetables; but at least one third of it was planted with potatoes. It however produced a quantity of fruit, which almost exhausted Theresa's patience in preserving for herself and her friends the Desmonds; for he would have been a bold wight, that would have ventured to suggest to one of the name of O'Sullivan the propriety of selling fruit. It was much more consonant to their dignity to let, what they or their friends could not consume, rot under the trees. A great gate opened on a gravel walk (besides the entrance door) on which Mr. O'Sullivan's father had driven his coach and four all round the walks. But these walks, though just then, as Jarge Quin said, in "iligant order," were not usually remarkable for neatness. In their progress round the garden, they came to a very beautiful flower bed, and Adelaide put out her hand to pull a rose that tempted her sight.—Jarge hastily stopped her, saying, "You're welcome, as the flowers of May, to any thing, but that, at Ballinamoyle; his honour will have that himself the morra. Before I went to the wars, I dug the place for Miss Rose to plant the tree with her own beautiful hands. In the bed we always put the same sorting of flowers, after the very moral of what she left them; and no soul ever pulls them but his honour, and nurse Delany, who dresses the altar, in Miss Rose's room, with them; and lays them about her monument in the chapel, where she's cut out in white marble more nat'ral than the life."

Adelaide made many apologies for the sacrilege she had been about to commit; and as she entered the house felt all the wounds of her heart bleed afresh, as she thought, "so would my beloved father have mourned for me."

CHAPTER IV.

As Mr. O'Sullivan's guests were rising from the breakfast table the following morning, a peremptory ringing of the hall door bell announced the welcome arrival of the gray headed postman, who travelled on foot at all seasons of the year, visiting in turn the scattered dwellings of the gentry of this mountainous region. Adelaide, with sparkling eyes and eager fingers, opened a letter from Mrs. Temple, in answer to hers from Shrewsbury, which, besides much domestic intelligence, contained the following paragraph:—

"I know you are much interested for Augustus Mordaunt, and therefore will be glad to hear that he is just gone abroad, with his uncle, Lord Osselstone, who, I am convinced, must grow proud, nay fond of him, as he has, by this means, an opportunity of being acquainted with the fine qualities of this noble young man. I am afraid my favourite wish, of his marrying Selina Seymour, is never likely to be gratified. Mr. Temple writes to me from London, that it is confidently reported she is engaged to Mr. Elton, Lord Eltondale's son and heir. He says, no young man in England bears a finer character (though it is impossible we could ever compare him to Augustus): a gentleman from Paris told Mr. Temple, that, instead of entering into the dissipation of that gay metropolis, he lives quite retired, absorbed in study; also that he had been acquainted with Mr. Elton in Sicily, where he was desperately in love with a lady of that country, whom he believed he had married: if this be the case, it is surely very dishonourable of him not to put an immediate stop to his engagement with Miss Seymour.—Augustus would never be guilty of such conduct."

Adelaide did indeed take a much deeper interest in Augustus Mordaunt's fate, than Mrs. Temple imagined; and little did that kind friend suspect the misery her letter had caused on the perusal. "Gone abroad!" exclaimed Adelaide, in thought; "perhaps for years."—A deadly paleness overspread her face, and she precipitately sought the solitude of her own chamber. Let us not intrude on the privacy she has chosen; but turn to survey the motley groupes that are now assembling about Mr. O'Sullivan's door.

This day, being Saturday, Miss Fitzcarril held her levee, which was as numerously, though not quite so respectably, attended as her host's had been on the day before. On this day of the week she gave audience, and a halfpenny apiece, to all the beggars in the country, with many charges not to spend their money idly. On these occasions she stood at the breakfast room window; from which spot she inquired into all their complaints, without scruple; and, with the assistance of nurse, prescribed for them, and gave medicines, wine, spirits, or black currant jam, as their wants demanded: this affair being at an end, they all adjourned to the kitchen door, where each received a pitcher of broth, and a huge oaten cake, to bake which had been the principal employment of the women assembled there the day before. An English reader might suppose, that the amount of Miss Fitzcarril's donation in money had been limited to a halfpenny to each beggar, from her own inclination to parsimony; but it was in fact what was customary, a sort of toll, paid by the gentry to the mendicants, on condition of receiving which,