the steps—her and the girleen.  I had seen enough, and turned away, for my heart was full.  I have never lived in slavery, and, plase God, I won’t die in it, Miss Lucy—and none I love shall ever be behoulden to a parish.”  This was reasoning—more of the heart than of the head.  And yet, who can say that poor Mary was very wrong?  True, that a roof shelters, and food keeps in existence the English pauper; but all the feelings that are cherished and honoured without the workhouse walls, are insulted and uprooted within; the holy law of wedded life—the command, what God hath joined let not man separate—is there outraged; fifty years have that aged man and woman paid the tithe and the tax; half a century have they laboured honestly; the grave has closed over their children and their early friends, and they are forced to durance in the poor man’s prison; but they must no longer quench their thirst from the same cup, or pray beside the same couch; the law of man divides what can be re-united only in the presence of the Creator!  No wonder then, if, like poor Mary, many turn away from unjust judgment, and resolve not to “die in slavery,” having been guilty of no sin but that of being poor.  Oh! but it is a grievous augmentation of evil when sympathy is diverted from its natural channel, and the sufferer is taught daily the sad knowledge that to want is to be criminal.

And so the fell disease, pale and ghastly, stalked on, grasping its panting and unresisting victim, closer and more close; wasting her form—infusing the thirsty fever into her veins—parching her quivering lips into whiteness—drawing her breath—steeping her in unwholesome dews—and, at times, with a most cruel mockery, painting her cheek and lighting an ignis fatuus in her eyes, to bewilder with false hopes of life, while life was failing!  Sometimes she would talk of this life as if it were everlasting, and—looking over a worn memorandum-book of her father’s, in which all the battles he was engaged in were chronicled after a soldier’s fashion; the day of the month noted, the name of the place, which added another to our wreath of glories, illuminated by the colours of his regiment rudely indicated by a star or an “hurra,” in a peculiarly cramped hand—she would become excited, and weave imaginary trophies, calling to her broken-hearted nurse to bring her the green laurel which her father loved to distribute among his comrades; these fever fits, however, were at long intervals, and brief; gradually as “the spring,” the physician had spoken of, advanced, the mingled hopes of this world, which are but as the faint shadowings of the great HEREAFTER, strengthened and spiritualized; and her thoughts were prayer, prayer to Him the Saviour and Redeemer; prayerful and patient she was, gentle and grateful; her perceptions which had been, for a time, clouded, quickened as her end drew near; she saw the furniture departing, piece by piece; at last she missed her father’s sash and sword; and when poor Mary would have framed excuses, she placed her quivering fingers on her lips, and spoke more than she had done for many days.  “God will reward you for your steadfast love of a poor parentless girl; you spared my treasure as long as you could, caring nothing for yourself, working and starving, and all for me.  Oh, that the world could know, and have belief in the fervent enduring virtues that sanctify such rooms as this, that decorate bare walls, and make a bright and warming light when the coal is burnt to ashes, and the thin candle, despite our watching, flickers before the night is done.  I have not thought it night, when I felt your hand or heard you breathe.”  Oh! what liberal charities are there of which the world knows nothing!  How generous, and how mighty in extent and value, are the gifts given by the poor to the poor!

It is useless as well as painful to note what followed; she faded and faded; yet the weaker her body grew, the clearer grew her mind, the more deep became her faith; she would lie for hours, sleepless, with her eyes fixed on what we should call vacancy—but which, to her, seemed a bright world of angels, with the Redeemer in the midst—murmuring prayers, and broken fragments of hymns, and listening to words of peace which no ear but her own could hear—her mind only returning to this world to bless Mary, when she came from her daily toil, or with the fruits of that solicitation, which she employed for her sake, to the last.  The dog, too, the poor old dog, that had partaken of her bounty, shared in her poverty, and would stand with his paws on the bed, looking with his dim eyes into her face, and licking her hand whenever she moved or moaned.

It was again the anniversary of the battle of Toulouse, and Lucy remembered it; she begged the old woman not to leave her; it would be her last day; her mind wandered a little; and then she asked for a bough of laurel—and to sit up—and Mary went out to seek for a few green leaves.  As she past hastily along, she met James Hardy stumping joyously onwards, and talking to himself, as if poor old John Coyne, who had been dead a year, was by his side; she saw he had something green in his hand, and she asked him to share it with her, for a poor girl, her “young lady,” the sergeant-major’s daughter, who was dying!

The veteran did as she desired; but the bow was yew, not laurel.  Well versed in omens, she returned it to him, burst into tears, and ran on.  He had heard that Miss Lucy was ill; but age is often forgetful; he had not thought of it; yet now, the memory of the past rushed into his heart, and he discovered so quickly where “Irish Mary” lived, that when she was home again, with a fresh green sprig of laurel, James Hardy was weeping bitterly by Lucy’s side, while Lucy was in an ecstacy of joy.  “Her father,” she said, “had come for her; there should be no more sorrow, no more pain; no more want for Mary or for her; her dear father had come for her.”  By a strong effort, she laid her head on James Hardy’s shoulder, and grasped her nurse’s hard, honest hand.  “I come, my FATHER!” she exclaimed, and all was over.

“To die so, in her prime, her youth, her beauty; to be left to die, because they say there’s no cure for it; THEY NEVER TRIED TO CURE HER!” exclaimed the nurse, between her bursts of grief—“no place to shelter her—no one to see to her—no proper food, or air, or care—my heart’s jewel—who cared for all, when she had it!  Still, the Lord is merciful; another week, and I should have had nothing but a drop of cold water to moisten her lips, and no bed for her to lie on.  I kept that to the last, anyhow; and now it may go; it must go; small loss; what matter what comes of the likes of me, when such as her could have no help!  I’ll beg from door to door, ’till I raise enough to lay her by her father’s side, in the churchyard of ould Chelsea.”  But that effort, at all events, was not needed; the hospital was astir; the sergeant-major was remembered; and the church-bell tolled when Lucy was laid in her father’s grave, in the Churchyard of Old Chelsea.