h, indeed,
hardly that, for even the voice of man changes; but that song is the
same as I heard it for the best part o' my life. That mornin' star,
too, is the same bright crathur up there that it ever was! God help
us! Hardly any thing changes but man, an' he seems to think that he
can never change; if one is to judge by his thoughtlessness, folly, an'
wickedness!"

A smaller hill, around the base of which went the same imperfect road
that crossed the glen of Tubber Derg, prevented him from seeing the
grave-yard to which he was about to extend his walk. To this road he
directed his steps. On reaching it he looked, still with a strong memory
of former times, to the glen in which his children, himself, and his
ancestors had all, during their day, played in the happy thoughtlessness
of childhood and youth. But the dark and ragged house jarred upon his
feelings. He turned from it with pain, and his eye rested upon the
still green valley with evident relief. He thought of his "buried
flower"--"his-golden-haired darlin'," as he used to call her--and
almost fancied that he saw her once more wandering waywardly through its
tangled mazes, gathering berries, or strolling along the green meadow,
with a garland of gowans about her neck. Imagination, indeed, cannot
heighten the image of the dead whom we love; but even if it could, there
was no standard of ideal beauty in her father's mind beyond that of
her own. She had been beautiful; but her beauty was pensive: a fair yet
melancholy child; for the charm that ever encompassed her was one of
sorrow and tenderness. Had she been volatile and mirthful, as children
usually are, he would not have carried so far into his future life the
love of her which he cherished. Another reason why he still loved her
strongly, was a consciousness that her death had been occasioned by
distress and misery; for, as he said, when looking upon the scenes of
her brief but melancholy existence--"Avour-neen machree, I remimber to
see you pickin' the berries; but asthore--asthore--it wasn't for play
you did it. It was to keep away the cuttin' of hunger from your heart!
Of all our childhre every one said that you wor the M'Carthy--never
sayin' much, but the heart in you ever full of goodness and affection.
God help me, I'm glad--an', now, that I'm comin' near it--loth to see
her grave."

He had now reached the verge of the graveyard. Its fine old ruin stood
there as usual, but not altogether without the sym