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 . 12, 1861.] him to see your eyes so heavy, and your cheek so pale? Mrs. Wendell tells me that you neither eat nor sleep.”

“Indeed I have tried to do both, but I cannot. And you forget how soon he will be taken from me; let me watch beside him till then.”

“At least stay out a little longer,” entreated Keefe, for she had turned as if to re-enter the house, “the sky is flushing brighter every moment, and listen—the clear, ringing notes of that bird, like little silver bells, always remind me of the fairy chimes for which I used to listen when I was a child, though I never heard them, nor did I ever catch a glimse of the elfin knights and damsels for which I used to watch in every lonely glen.”

“Then you are not an American,” said Helen, “for who, in this prosaic country, believes in the wonders of fairy land.”

“No, I was born in Ireland; and in that wild land, in the clefts of its rocky mountains at whose feet the stormy Atlantic comes tumbling in, and round whose top the eagle scars, on the shores of its lonely cliffs, and in the recesses of its green glens, all those mystic legends and dark superstitions which here are scornfully scouted, are believed with the firmest faith. In Ireland I believed them too, and even now I sometimes wish I could summon up the thrill, half of terror and half of mysterious delight, with which I used to watch in hopes of seeing the fairy folk dance on the old rath by the light of the new May moon; still I love to recall the old tales and ballads with which my nurse fed my fancy, and bewitched my senses.”

“Then your childhood was a happy one?” said Helen.

“While my mother lived, it was as happy as a dream of Eden, but when she died—the difference could hardly be greater, if one of those little ones who is in heaven, always beholding their Father’s face, should suddenly be cast into hell. All the feelings I had inherited from her, all the principles she had taught me, were mocked and outraged till I learned to hide them in the deepest centre of my heart, and I myself almost believed them extinct. Oh! children can suffer agonies undreamt of by those around them, more bitter, perhaps, than they can ever know in after-years, for it seems to me a child’s feelings can be as strong as those of any grown person, and his power to control or combat them is much less.”

“But you had your father,” said Helen; “was he unkind to you?”

“No, not unkind, but he neglected me. My mother’s death was a dreadful one—some other time I will tell you about it, if you care to hear, and I think his anger and grief at her sad fate hardened his heart against God and man. But my physical sufferings were never worth mentioning. I had, naturally, a strong, tough nature, which made light of toil and privation, and never knew fear; all my misery sprang from the want of that love which my mother had so tenderly lavished on me, and my innate and unconquerable disgust at the scenes of coarse vice among which I was thrown. I said unconquerable, yet I do not want you to think me better than I am, Miss Lennox, and I sometimes think that if I had not often felt my mother’s presence, and the touch of her hand, when I lay down at night, I might have been as bad as any of those about me. But why should you care to hear all this about me?”

“I like to hear it,” said Helen, “it has done me good. I, too, will try to believe that the love which on earth was so true and strong will be still treasured up for us in heaven; and that it is only the mists of earth which hide from us those we have loved and lost.”

“And, look,” exclaimed Keefe, with an earnestness which shook his voice, “look what a glory of loveliness rests now on the sky and earth, and what a soft calm seems breathing all around. How can we doubt that a presence of peace and love hovers over us?”

“Yes,” said Helen, “but the beauty of this hour will soon fade.”

“And then the stars will come out. See! there is one star. It has often been my guide home when I have lost my way in the bush, and I always look on it as an omen of hope and good.”

“Ah!” said Helen, “now the cloud hides it.” “But the star is there still; and, look!—now it shines out again, as bright as if its lustre had never been dimmed. Think of that star breaking through the cloud when your thoughts are sad, and take it as an omen of hope coming after sorrow?”

“Yes. Now I must go. Good night.”

She walked a few paces away, and then turned back.

“I have not once thanked you,” she said, in an agitated manner, “for all your kindness; but I know you will not think me ungrateful.”

She could not say any more.

“If you think you owe me anything,” said Keefe, very gently, “repay me by taking care of yourself. If I could only see you comforted, I should feel so glad.”

“I am comforted,” she answered, and so they parted.

Keefe remained strangely excited. He was in a new world, teeming with new emotions, hopes, and desires; he scarcely knew himself, all within and around him had changed; the earth, the heavens, his own being. The fetters that had hitherto held his finer faculties enthralled were loosened, a divine spark had kindled within his soul, chasing the dark mists that had till now clouded and dulled it, and opening to his view visions of higher aspirations, nobler emotions, and purer joys than had visited him before; he could not bear to leave the spot which Helen’s presence had so lately made enchanted ground, and throwing himself on the grass, he remained in a waking dream of sweet thoughts, till the deepening night and the chill winds of the early summer at last drove him into the house, where he found the pancakes which Mrs. Wendell had prepared for his supper completely spoilt, and her patience quite worn out by his unusual delay.

Nor had their meeting been without its effect on Helen: the genuine sincerity of Keefe’s