Three years of disappointment passed, banishing youth from her face prematurely, and many, many bitter thoughts came which never came before. Young men ceased to saunter in, for the rose upon her cheek was white, and scars of trouble spoiled her delicate brow. Tedious the stormy winters when wild waves wasted their passion on the shore; mournful the gentle summer days, when excursionists poured down from the city on Sundays. It was sad work to awaken from her dream and to find that she was only a poor barmaid after all, whose business it was to deal out drink to thirsty lips, and to be familiar with cursing and drunken quarrels. At last a well-to-do brother settled in America, enclosed money to his orphan sister, and she went across the Atlantic to him. She was exceedingly grateful for his kindness, as one must needs be who like her is alone and uncared for. Keeping house for him while he prospered in riches, and gave her lots of pocketmoney, gems, and charming silken dresses; but all these things could not mend her broken heart. Then the wealthy brother married, and she gave up the household keys to the satisfied young wife. In her brother's house she would be one too many henceforth, and so she went to live in a lonely lodging, and there, at eight and twenty, the broken heart found rest in death. In a New York cemetery, the shadow of a sculptured cross is thrown upon the

grass-grown grave of O'Malley Oranmore's only love.

This sleek thirty-year-old heiress-hunter is not too tall. Blue eyed, beardless, whiskerless, wearing gracefully a dark brown, bushy, military moustache, his long hair curling behind each ear down his neck, vigilantly obedient to fashion from spotless collar to Paris boots, he moves about amongst the daughters of men, who gaze upon him as upon one who might deliver them from greedy brothers and sisters, from mamma's precepts and papa's unpleasant murmurings over millinery bills, and the cost of gloves for the little hands which would willingly exchange all the splendid gems they wear for one plain wedding-ring.

This evening, seated in a room at his club, a wicked leer draws his thick moustache aside from its even and graceful position. He permits that sardonic distortion, for no one is present to notice the expressive curl, which is a meet interpreter of the images crowding in his mind into indefinite plans, to be more accurately arranged and skilfully matured when their time has come. He is thinking of Noel d'Auvergne. He is full of disquietude that Madeleine Leyne should be indebted to him for being the means of rescuing her from inevitable destruction, and, still worse, in such a manner-so heroic, so unselfish, as to win her unbounded gratitude, her real admiration, and, perhaps for how can he foresee but that such

a terrible blow to his prospects may eventually be the result of all this ?-her enthusiastic love. O'Malley Oranmore knew enough of the world, knew enough of D'Auvergne, to feel certain that no woman could long be acquainted with D'Auvergne without becoming devotedly attached to him, either in friendship or in love. And now he was actually for several weeks living under the same roof with her! attended on by her, nursed there by the family, ingratiated amongst the Leynes. They would-she woulddaily more intimately understand what sort of man D'Auvergne was, and Oranmore felt that to understand him was to prize him as few are prized. It was a great disappointment to O'Malley Oranmore that this episode should have taken place; and so he keenly felt it to-night, for he uttered this sentence before he rose and left the room :

"Well for me, better for him, had he never been brought in that sentimental way to her house! Better for him to have followed the horse to the bottom of the quarry, and have lain there under him as lifeless, than to cross my path! Noel D'Auvergne, keep out of my way, or, by heaven! I will make you!"

Next minute he was smiling amongst a group of club friends, and the graceful moustache was as even as he could desire, and his blue eyes were full of calm and pleasant light, like sunshine, as though the soul within was happy and sinless, and scornful of sin.

CHAPTER V.

BEATRICE'S LOVE.

"Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful."

SHAKSPEARE.

PLEASURE-SEEKERS hasten to the Rhine every

year, to the lofty heights of Switzerland, to the classic land of Italy, and heed not that there is a spot not far from home well worth a visit. That spot lies in the south-west of Ireland, and is called Killarney. Here the skies are radiant when the summer sun burns in the blue expanse; here the upward stretching mountains look like roads to heaven; here are ruins where one may meditate and weave an unwritten poem; here hand in hand lingers the past with the present;—the crumbling shrine and the bustling hotel, the peasant and the tourist. With its "fair gardens, shining streams," blushing flowers, venerable trees, storied piles, and modern residences, Killarney is a sight to come and see. It is the Eden of Ireland; nay, it seems as if the earth in this one little corner reflected back some portion of Heaven!

E

What different travellers-birds of passage on the wing-cluster here for a week or two, and then separate to meet perhaps no more. Hopeful youths, with strong blood within them, beginning the fight of life, pensive maidens pining for true love, children happy in their unconscious purity, men of middle age thoughtful after the splendid education of experience, the old thinking of the vanity of things.

When the lakes are moonlit the bridegroom speaks to his young bride soft whispers full of sweetness, as the dip of the oar measures time to the echoes of amateur music ringing among the bosoms of the surrounding hills; and when he will be in the distant hereafter a white-haired widower, surely dear Killarney shall bring back to his recollection the vivid memory of her who, by her prevailing example, made him henceforth good.

Glena, Torc, Innisfallen! how the emigrant, when he hears of these familiar places, forgets the sorrow, the gloom, the hunger which drove him into exile, and recalls that autumn evening, the last he spent in his native Killarney, when the sunset glowed upon the lovely land! A tear starts, which he, man-like, brushes away, his hands grasp the spade more firmly, big emotion fills his religious breast, and, with a smile of faith upon his face, he submits, satisfied-he says it in Irish-with the blessed will of God, and is as sure in his heart as that two and two make four