until he had it off by heart. And this second valentine cured him of a foolish dream. "He shall take a burden upon him that hath fellowship with one more honourable than himself," says a Book which teaches not vainly; and Noel d'Auvergne thought no more of Lady Dashbrook, so entirely had Mary Leyne stolen into her lost place in his heart again, never to leave it for the rest of Noel's busy days! Not very long after this, one of the bitterest griefs he had met with filled his soul. Its peculiar bitterness was akin to that he experienced in the death of his own sister years ago. On Easter Sunday-it was meetest that he should die on that day of all othersTom Middleton, the young Melchisedek, ended the stirring pulsation of his brave, great heart. The Christlike son of the King of kings went to take possession of his throne. "Being made perfect in a short space, he fulfilled a long time: for his soul pleased God: therefore he hastened to bring him out of the midst of iniquities: but the people see this, and understand not, nor lay up such things in their hearts." The silver cord is broken, and the golden fillet has shrunk back; into the earth the dust has returned, and the spirit to God. Let the mourners go round about in the street, it is nothing to him now who remembered his Creator in the days of his youth, before the time of affliction came. And yet we must mourn, and a cry of agony is wrung from hearts made desolate by his early death, for he was "like to the roe, and to the young hart upon the mountains." He was old, too, when he died, for a spotless life is old age! Don't you remember when he came back from Rome a priest-how his sweet face wore that charming expression of peace? Don't you remember the two deep lines that knit his brows, and which were carved there by years of highest thought? True, we held that those lines were intruding strangers upon so friendly a face, and wondered why they were there! And then we saw him in the quiet church, listening with patient smiles to some whispered tale of woe-and we wondered still more to find that those care-carved lines were for the moment gone, and his brow was smooth as a girl's of seventeen, who is fearless because she is not yet afraid of the world. After four year's ministry in Dublin, he died of a fever caught in the discharge of his duties while attending the death-bed of an humbly-born German girl, who a twelvemonth before was made a Catholic by the sight of him. For that angelic face-so pure and peaceful!-drew her to the chapel he was attached to, until she was won and made fit for heaven. had a big heart in a small house-of all things here below that which is said to have touched Lacordaire the most. She Those who laid Tom in his earthly resting-place were friends to whom he was a beacon on their way, and who loved him and felt the influence of his life. They saw that youthful countenance in its beauty of health, and in the stillness of its long sleep. To them he is a pledge that what they live for is true, and so they are grateful to him, and in their gratitude have lifted up a marble tomb, which tells that he who lies beneath is worthy of remembrance. They stand by his grave sometimes and think with gladness of the sky behind the clouds. Yes, “Let the dear old land that bore him cover o'er his manly breast." O'Connell's Round Tower stands like a sentinel close by Daniel guarded the living in his day—and not far off, waiting the Resurrection, reposes the body of the poor German maiden, beneath an unnoticed. wooden cross. Many an old man and old woman who cannot rise from their beds are thankful to Tom, and they little think that he would be the first to go. Young girls are truer for the recollection of him to all that which is worthiest of the name of woman. Young men the good and the brave, the darling flower of our nation-have learned from the young sailor-priest to be generous to God, to their Faith, to their Land! To see him did more than a mighty preacher. His life, short but immortal, wrought its allotted work. He may rest now, though ill can earth spare him and such as him! Requiescat in pace. But does he need our prayer? ... "O how beautiful is the chaste generation with glory: for the memory thereof is immortal. . . . When it is present they imitate it, and they desire it when it hath withdrawn itself, and it triumpheth crowned for ever, winning the reward of undefiled conflicts. ... For venerable old age is not that of long time, nor counted by the number of years; but the understanding of a man is grey hairs. . . . He pleased God and was beloved; and living among sinners he was translated. He was taken away lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul. . . . Being made perfect in a short space, he fulfilled a long time. For his soul pleased God: therefore he hastened to bring him out of the midst of iniquities; but the people see this and understand not, nor lay up such things in their hearts." ... WISDOM iv. "WEEP EEP but a little for the dead, for he is at rest"! So Noel wept but little for dear Tom, so far at least as tears are concerned. But tears are not the measure of weeping when the heart is touched -touched through and through by the penetrating pierce of that dart of sorrow which strikes so directly home. How could he not but mourn, as one mourns who is in distant exile and hears only indistinct tidings of his native land—the dwelling-place of the friends in home's security there? Tom was one so tender, pure, and true that Noel, thinking of him, remembered sadly Hamlet's estimate of his murdered kingly sire-Tom was kingly too, and Noel's spiritual father—“" He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." "Those whom the gods love die young," says one, as if tenderness, purity, and truth were in peril midst the mental battles of mankind. These things are immortal, and the immortal in human nature would grasp and possess them for ever. But that may not be for all men, since that which is mortal within us throws the blighting shade of death over some, and sin-the skeleton at many feasts-sickles down the flowers which would rise to heaven, and crowns with a garland the haughty brow of Lucifer. The pure and the true, how much they are to many a sighing heart! They are so precious that gold cannot purchase them. Who has not felt within him those intense aspirings after what is pure and true, those indefinite longings after the infinite? Who has not heard within himand trembled with the desire excited by the exquisite music—those soul-songs-so sad, so plaintive, so beautiful!-the carol of the spirit beating against prisonbars and wounding itself? It sees heaven, as it were, and has not wings to fly there. Of all those soul |