sion. "Denies her own father, that tiled and spint for
her! Why, Molly dear, you are the image of me, barring the color of
the hair, mine being a trifle foxy, while yourn is a darkish brown; and
barring the lines of care and trouble on my brow,--the hard lines I 've
had no child's hand to smooth away, the saints pity me!"

Hero Molly's soft heart was touched, and she asked, gently, "Where do
you come from now? and what do you want of me?"

"Well, I came last from New York, when, after a power of trouble, I
found out your whereabouts. My heart so cried out for my daughter and
my darling boys. You see, for the five years past I 've been, so to
speak, in retirement on the Hudson."

"Where?" asked Molly, bewildered.

"Why, in a quiet town called Sing Sing; but; faith! it's little singing
I did there."

"Do you mean that you have been in the penitentiary?" said Molly,
startled.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes. But you see it's a hard
word to pronounce, that same. I got into what gintlemen call
'difficulties,' pretty soon after my Biddy died, and my poor children
was torn from my arms. Somehow, I had no heart to keep up a good
character. I was what they call _desperate_; so I went into a
gintleman's house one avening, without ringing the bell and sending up
my card, as in my better days I should have done, you know. I went in
head foremost, through a back window, and when I was coming out with a
trifle of silver, the police nabbed me, and it was all up for a while
with poor Pat Magee. Now what do I want with you? I want to know
about my darling boys, of course. Are they living and respectable?"

"Yes," replied Molly; "they are well and doing well. I hear from them
twice a year, and write to them oftener."

"Doing well, are they! but doing nothing for their poor ould father.
Ah, this is a hard world."

Molly could not refrain from saying, "They _used_ to think it so, but
they don't now. They have good friends, comfortable homes, and are
happy and industrious."

"_Industrious!_ and isn't it myself that taught them to be that same?
Niver did I spare the rod when they came home empty-handed from a day
on the streets."

Molly made no reply, but tried to pass on. Again Patrick stopped her,
and said, with a strange, cunning smile, "And so, miss, you don't
believe I 'm your rale father."

"No," answered Molly, firmly. "I have always had indistinct
recollections of a very different home f