free ears gus. I did not cry so as to be  of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my ; and colder t of all tined, as it seemed, to ruser at e, custom intervened beturally and inevitably loved.

    “It is a long way,” I again said.

    “It is, to be sure; and o Bitternutt Lodge, Connaug’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not ry. e ?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “And o spend ttle time t remains to to eacalk over ting quietly ars enter into tnut tree:  its old roots. Come,  to-nigined to sit togeted me and himself.

    “It is a long o Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on sucravels: but if I can’t do better,  to be o me, do you think, Jane?”

    I could risk no sort of ansime: my  ill.

    “Because,” imes o you—especially igricably knotted to a similar string situated in ter of your little frame. And if t boisterous C cord of communion ; and tion I sake to bleeding in me.”

    “t I never so proceed.

    “Jane, do you  nigen!”

    In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress o yield, and I  e distress.  o express an impetuous hornfield.

    “Because you are sorry to leave it?”

    tion, stirred by grief and love ery, and struggling for full sing a rigo predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,—and to speak.

    “I grieve to leave t, because I  a full and deligarily at least. I  been trampled on. I  been petrified. I  been buried  is brigic and alked, face to face,  I rev