"I fear that it may be the little girl's funeral," said May, and burst into a passion of tears.

"Impossible;" said Miss Martha; "we should have heard of her death."

Do not cry, little one," said Father Felix. "It is no doubt an ordinary funeral from the hills." And he stole away to his chapel to pray for the rest of some unknown soul.

"Now you take the telescope, May," said her aunt, "and amuse yourself watching these travellers. And don't you fret your self for nothing, my dear. As for me I have to boil my preserves."

Funerals were familiar events to Miss Martha.

"But there are bright things shining in the riders' hands, and a bier with a cover as white as snow," muttered May in her belfry, telescope in hand. And then about noon she beheld wild Con coming flying along the road to Monasterlea.

News, Con? News from Camlough ?" cried May, speeding to meet him, and clapping her hands to attract his notice. But he dashed past her without heeding, leaped over the gravestones like a goat, dived into the cloisters through a breach in the wall, nor paused till he burst into the chapel.

The old priest had been kneeling in prayer before his altar, but rose in dismay at the rude noise. Wild Con dropped prostrate at his feet.

"Master bring miss down hill," cried the fool. "Father Felix make her laugh and walk about. Aha! little missy get up quite well."

Father Felix patted him soothingly on the head. The idiot was quivering with excitement. He began to laugh and cry as the sound of many feet and voices became audible through the window. But the priest signed to him to be still and reverent, and he crouched upon the ground, covering his face with his hands.

The door opened again, and May came radiantly into the chapel, stepping on tiptoe, and looking like a spirit.

a fallen tombstone. The white velvet trappings swept the earth, and the flowers and baubles glowed and glittered with new lustre and colour in the brilliant air. A tawnycheeked woman in a scarlet shawl held a canopy of white silk over the sick girl's wan face, and over the loose golden hair, which lay in a shower among the nettles. Sir John had alighted, and, with hat in hand, advanced to meet the monk. Lady Archbold sat haughtily on her horse.

"Good sir," said Sir John, "our daughter is sick. All natural aid has failed to cure her. We come to you, begging you will restore her. We have brought you giftsthe most precious things we could select on the instant-but they are a small part of what we are prepared to give you."

The old man glanced all around, for the pomp and pride of the scene troubled him. As he stood there, with the eyes of these great people upon him, he looked to worldly view a meagre figure, both as to flesh and garb, yet with a certain dignity of age and holiness which could not be questioned, still less understood. Sir John grew impatient at a moment's delay.

"Sir," he said, we are in anguish. Is it not your calling to succour the distressed?"

Alas, sir," said the old man, "take away your gifts. God alone can do what you desire. I can pray in your name, but He looks to the humility of your heart." Lady Archbold now pressed forward.

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Sirrah, obey!" she cried, wildly. "You shall exert your power-we care not much if it be of heaven or of hell. We only want our child! Oh, me, we only want our child!" And she broke out into a wail of despair.

Lady," said the old man, looking at her with mild pity, "you speak to me as if I were a sorcerer. I am no such thing, neither am I a saint-only the poorest of God's servants. And I hesitate, fearing no mercy will be shown which is demanded in such a spirit.

Lady Archbold's face sank beneath his glance. She flung herself from her horse, and went down on her knees till the feathers of her hat touched the earth.

priest himself had tears in his eyes as he answered her appeal.

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Daughter," he said, "I will do as you wish. Let us all, then, kneel, and crave this blessing."

All sank upon their knees in the grass. Some supported themselves against the broken crosses, some leaned upon the mounds of the graves. Many women were weeping, many men trembling. Lady Archbold crouched with her face to the

very moss of the earth. It was long, whispered the people, since she had knelt before. She shuddered as the priest made a loud distinct prayer, to which the mass of the people responded with a sound that was like the roaring of a troubled sea.

But soon there was silence in the graveyard. The priest had sunk prostrate in silent prayer. The very rooks had stopped their clamour in the belfry. The people held their breath, and feared even to sway their bent bodies. Only a lark dared to sing, and sang long and ecstatically, rising higher and higher, till, only for the echo of its notes, it might have seemed to be consumed in the amber fires of the sun. It seemed to May that the singing of this lark was the voice of the old man's prayer, as it pierced its urgent way to heaven.

An hour passed, and the kneeling people began to grow weary. Lady Archbold glanced once at her child, crouched to the earth again, and groaned aloud. Another hour passed, and a woman fainted, and some children stole away to play at a distance. It was far in the third hour when a loud scream rang out upon the air.

The scream came from May, who was close to the sick girl, and had seen her long hair stir among the nettles. The next moment Katherine Archbold sat up, and began gazing curiously around her. First a hoarse murmur of awe ran through the crowd; then there arose such a cheer from the hearts of the mountain men as had never been heard among these walls before. The startled crows set up a wild clamour round the belfry. The mother rushed towards her daughter, stumbled among the people and fell, but was raised by the strong, kind arms of women, and carried by them to the side of her Katherine. Mother, father, and child were locked in a wild embrace, amidst the sobs and exclamations of the people.

It was some minutes before any one remembered the old priest. Little May's shrill voice again raised, and her slight arm beating back the people, first recalled him to their minds. Then they looked on the ground where he lay upon his face. They

turned him on his back, and found he had passed from prayer into a swoon. Now Miss Martha bustled up in tears. She had knelt in the distance upon her door-step, half joining in the scene and half resenting it, knowing too well the consequences of such efforts for her brother. She gathered his frail body in her arms, and, with the help of friends, had him carried to the house.

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Ah, yes, good sir," she said, bitterly, to Sir John, "he has given your daughter health, but I greatly fear she has given him his death."

"I pray God no," said Sir John.

Miss Martha was too hospitable to suffer the people from Camlough to return without refreshment, and bestowed on them such entertainment as it was in her power to give. The crowd soon scattered to carry far and wide the story of the morning, and Sir John and his wife and child honoured Miss Martha's dwelling with their presence.

May invited Katherine to her own little room, having leave to wait upon her, whilst Miss Martha was attending to Lady Archbold. To this Katherine submitted with a languid condescension.

"Have you not a better frock than this ?" asks she, surveying the robe of thick white muslin in which May was attiring her with tender hands.

"Alas, no!" said May, crest-fallen, “I always thought it was a pretty frock, but I see it is not good enough for you."

"I should think not," said Katherine, flinging her head about, and tossing her gold mane in May's eyes. "You should see what handsome frocks I wear at Camlough; but what makes your eyes so red, little girl?"

"I wept this morning," said May, who was ready to weep again. "I wept because you were so sick."

"How funny!" said Katherine, laughing; "I'm sure I should not weep if you were sick. But I like you very well, and you shall come to Camlough. You are a nice little girl in your own way; but you are not so beautiful as I am."

"Oh, no!" said May, eagerly, "I could not be so silly as to think so.'

"You are a very pleasant little girl," said Katherine; "I shall certainly have you with me at Camlough."

Before Sir John and Lady Archbold left Monasterlea, they stood by the old priest's bedside, to offer him their thanks. At her husband's suggestion, Lady Archbold expressed her sorrow for wild words which had been uttered in her grief.

But Lady Archbold's pride was on the return. She thought herself lectured, and turned away with impatience, which she hardly took the trouble to conceal. At the same moment Katherine was led unwillingly into the room, glancing about the place with an air of scorn. The pallid old man upon the couch was an object of ridicule in her eyes. When her father placed her beneath the hand which was extended to bless her, she drew back in disgust. And then they all departed, and the train went back to Camlough.

And May hid herself in her belfry to weep. This was her first real grief. Katherine had disappointed her. The sweet dreamplaymate was no more. Pride shown to herself she did not mind, but contempt of her uncle the loving heart could not brook.

And after all this Miss Martha's anxious words came true; for in two days Father Felix was dead.

CHAPTER V. THE HEIR TO THE WOODS.

PAUL FINISTON and his mother had for many years lived in a high narrow house, on the Quays, in Dublin, close by where a light bridge springs over the dark running river. Tall spars congregated beside it, and old brown sails flapped heavily in the water, turning orange and red in the sun. High above there were domes against the sky, and in the shadow of the up-hill distance loomed the ghostly outlines of many peaks and pinnacles.

Mrs. Finiston was a frail creature, who was chained to a sofa in her dingy room. For years she had had nothing strong to protect her but her trust in God, nothing bright to look at but the face of her boy. Yet with these two comforts she had managed to get on pretty well, and now her son was turning into a tall brave lad. Only let her live for a few years more and she might free him for ever from the dangers that beset him.

She had saved her husband from the curse of his family, and she would also try to save her son. Her husband had been the brother of Simon the miser. He had obtained with difficulty a commission in the army, and had been sent into the world to seek his fortune. It had been her labour

to keep him from longing after ill-omened possessions. She was tender, upright, and somewhat superstitious, and the curse of Tobereevil had been the terror of her life. The dread of it had made her patient in poverty, and peculiarly unselfish in her love; and her patience and love had so influenced her husband that he had never shown a desire to touch the rusting treasures of his race. Husband and wife had paid one visit together to Tobereevil, and had hastened away, shuddering at the wretchedness they had witnessed. But now he had been dead many years.

Mrs. Finiston was in receipt of a small pension, and possessed also a trifling annuity of her own. But all this little income would vanish when she died. No wonder, then, that she prayed to be spared. No wonder that she stinted and saved with the hope of being enabled to give her son a profession. She had determined against making him a soldier. As a soldier he would be always poor; and in poverty, there was that danger of the longing for the riches of the misers of Tobereevil. She would hedge round his future from that risk.

Her high sitting-room window was bowed out towards the river, and the narrow panes between its ancient pilasters afforded a view over the bridge into the sunshine. The dome of the Four Courts shone finely in the distance above the masts, through the soft amber haze of a summer's day. She had resolved that under its shelter her Paul should yet win fame and gold: honourable fame, which he would prefer to wealth, gold, honestly earned, which he would generously share and spend. There were many great men even in her own little day who had grown up out of smaller beginnings. The mother on the sofa recalled a dozen such.

With a view to all this she had deprived herself of comfort that he might be taught by the best tutors in Dublin. He was now seventeen, a student of Trinity, and had taken a fair share of honours for his time. He was not a genius, nor over-fond of books, but he loved his mother, and appreciated the sacrifices she was making for his sake. And, though he smiled a little at her anxiety about the curse, his horror of it was even greater than her own.

Thus Paul Finiston, sitting among his books in the rude old window, would often also raise his eyes and hopes to that dome of promise against the clouds. He would stifle in his heart certain yearnings for an open-air life; for travel, for change, for the ownership of country acres, and the

power of mastership in a dominion of his own. He would determine within him to let no weakness of purpose throw him in the way of temptation. He would become a learned hard-headed man of business, who should found a new house to redeem the honour of his name; and above all should have no leisure for bad dreams.

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Paul," said his mother one evening as he came in and settled down to his books, 66 I have had a letter from the west.' "From the west!" echoed Paul, startled, thinking of the miser.

"From dear old Martha Mourne. She is coming to Dublin on business with her lawyer. And she says, 'I will bring poor Timothy's child to see you.''

"Who is poor Timothy's child ?" asked Paul. "Her niece? I hope she is not grown up." For he was very shy of women, having been accustomed to speak to none but his mother.

"She is a child of about twelve years old, if I remember. And you must be kind to her, Paul. You must meet them at the coach and bring them here."

Paul pulled a face over his book, a sign of dismay which he would not have shown his mother for the world. He tried to be glad that she should see a friend, but for himself he had a dread of old women and children. Still he would be kind to them and civil to them, if he could. He would meet them at the coach-office, of course, and carry all their band-boxes, if need be. He would pour out the tea as he was accustomed to do, and help little missy and old madam to cake. But after all these things were resolved upon, it could surely never hurt any one that he should kick his old boots about his own little room, and wish the good people safely back where they came from.

At four o'clock next day the coach came in. It was a long, rose-coloured evening towards the spring, full of soft promise of sweet months yet to come; bars of red fell across the bridge, and spikes of burnished gold tipped the clustering spars, while masses of light and shade rolled up and down the shifting shrouds, gambolling like living things.

able arrangements made, he sauntered slowly down the quay with his hands in his pockets. He gazed with new interest at the movements of the men in the boats. He spoke to them from the wall, and was pleased when they invited him on board; but the very last moment of lingering arrived, and Paul was at his post when the coach drove up.

He scanned the faces inside, and recognised his charge with a thrill of relief. They did not appear awful after all, and they looked very tired, and very glad of him at the door. This no doubt made Paul look also glad to see them, and the introduction was quite pleasant and friendly. There was nothing to object to about Miss Martha, except that her bonnet was a little bruised on one side; but that was from falling asleep against the side of the coach. She looked thoroughly a lady in her neat garments of lavender and black, and her quickwitted ways seemed to announce that she was accustomed to be no inconvenience to any one. Beside her sat a slim little maiden, in a grey pelisse and a deep straw bonnet tied down with white, who was cherishing fondly a basket of roses, which had faded, in her lap. And, when the bonnet turned round, there were discovered under it cheeks flushed with fatigue, and bright eager eyes; a sweet little bloomy carnation of a face.

The travellers, upon their part, saw a strong, graceful, good-looking lad. The face was as good a face as ever woman looked upon. The features were manly, the eyes dark and steady under finely marked brows. They were sweet-tempered eyes, yet suggestive of passion. The forehead was broad; and the temples too full for any man, but a poet. The halfcurled locks were thick and fair, and the mouth looked particularly truthful. It was not a very firm mouth, and yet not weak. Truthful-looking and changeful, and very apt to smile. And it smiled broadly as Paul Finiston handed young missy and old madam out of the coach.

As for parcels, Miss Martha had only two small bags and a large umbrella, and it was as much as Paul could do to get leave to carry the latter.

"No, my dear," she said, "though I like you for offering. It is a good sign to see a lad polite to old women. But I'd rather you'd take hands with little May to keep her steady on the crossings."

bag in each hand. And, in spite of his dread of old women and children, Paul forgot to be uneasy lest any of the Trinity fellows should happen to stroll down the street at the wrong minute, and behold this procession crossing the bridge.

THE WHITE WITCH OF COMBE ANDREW.

"I'LL just go and see my Aunt Hagley: see if I don't!"

It was Mary Bernal who spoke, and it was Jane Dalby to whom she spoke; and what she said she said with an air, as if more was lying behind than the mere words would show.

Jane Dalby tossed her head. "Go, and welcome!" she answered disdainfully. "For my part," she continued, "I wouldn't own as glib as you to an aunt like that old Hagley. She's none such a dear to be so proud of!"

"All very well, Jane, for you to cast stones at aunt," said Mary with a superior manner. "Me and them as knowsHere she stopped.

"Now then, go on, can't you?" cried Jane. "Out with it. You and them as knows what ?"

"Well! we knows what we knows," said Mary, after a pause. "And now you're answered, Jane."

With which she left the servants' hall triumphantly, as one who has at least given the enemy a check, if nothing worse; going up-stairs to adorn her young mistress, Belle Loder; for it was dressing time; while Jane went to do the like office for her young lady, Rose Kenealy; both maids having the same object at heart for each -the fascination of Major Julius Crewkherne, owner of Crewkherne Manor hard by, and the handsomest man in Devonshire, as he was one of the best matches.

Now Crewkherne Manor and the Loder property lay handy to each other; and it had always been one of the favourite wishes of both houses, that the Crewkherne boy and the Loder girl would take a fancy to each other when they grew up, and so enclose the two estates in a ring fence that would suit every one concerned. Each property alone was well enough; but, both together, they would place the possessor among the best of the county, and would raise the joint families of Loder-Crewkherne to a position second to none in England. Wherefore it was, that when old Darcy Crewkherne died and his son the major came

home from India to reign in his stead, every one said it was a thing so plainly marked out by Providence and the local map-that the major couldn't but see it, and do as his father had wished him to do; namely, take Miss Belle, and in time the Loder property, so soon as the days of mourning were at an end.

And perhaps things would have gone their way if the Loders could have managed to keep the major close, and not have let any one else have a chance. For he was fairly enough inclined to Miss Belle, when he first returned, and showed his liking frankly. But in an evil hour for her he accepted an invitation to stay a few days at Martin's Tor, the Rawdons' place; and there he found Rose Kenealy, Mrs. Rawdon's orphaned, penniless niece, whom they had adopted and brought up, and who was "out" for her first year.

To be sure the Rawdons, mindful of the common talk, had been careful to ask Belle Loder at the same time as the major ; while, to do them justice, no thought of little Rose, or her possible attractions, had entered into their calculations. She was but a child yet to them; and they did not think of her marrying, any more than if she had been but ten years old instead of eighteen. They had known well and liked heartily old Darcy Crewkherne, and they had liked Julius too, when a boy; and they wished to be neighbourly, that was all. And as Julius was anxious to both make new and reestablish old relations, he had gone to Martin's Tor willingly; and when he had seen little Rose he had remained more willingly. It was a case of love at first sight; and the major was a man of a clear mind and determined will.

There could not be a more striking contrast between two girls than there was between Belle Loder and Rose Kenealy; and the contrast was not only on the outside. Belle was a tall, largely made, sleepylooking girl with a dead white skin, a profusion of straight and silky flaxen hair, and heavy-lidded eyes of light hazel, with singularly large pupils. But you did not often see her eyes, for she had a trick of keeping them half closed; and only when she wished to produce an effect did she open them fully. Rose, on the contrary, was a small, slight, vivacious creature, with a curly head of brightest brown, rose-red cheeks, and large dark eyes that changed with the light, being sometimes blue and sometimes grey, but always bright and frank, and tender or merry as the humour took her. They were true Irish eyes, in