, in the little flower-garden, assisting the
old gardener to fasten some stray tendrils of a japonica between two
trees.

"We must try and shelter this window, Ned," said she, "from the morning
sun. It comes in too strongly here in papa's library. By next summer, I
hope to see a thick trellis of leaves across the whole casement."

"By next summer," repeated the old man, from within, with a trembling
voice; "and who will be here to see it?"

"This little hedge, too, must be overgrown with that creeping plant we
got from America, the white liana. I want the beech to be completely hid
beneath the blossoms, and they come out in May."

"In May!" said the poor old man, with an accent of inexpressible
sadness, as though the very promise of spring had unfolded a deep vista
of years of suffering. "But why care for the home, if she, who made its
sunshine, is taken from me? What matters it where I linger on, or how,
the last few hours of a life, bereft of its only enjoyment,--she, that
in my old age renewed all the memories of my early and my happy days."

He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and when he withdrew
them, the whole character and expression of the countenance had changed:
a dull, meaningless look had replaced the mild and cheerful beam of his
soft blue eyes; the cheeks were flattened, and the mouth, so ready with
its gentle smile, now remained partly open, and slightly drawn to one
side. He made an effort to speak, but a thickened guttural utterance
rendered the words scarcely intelligible. He approached the window and
beckoned with his hand. The next instant, pale with terror, but still
composed and seeming calm, Mary was beside him.

"You are not well, dear papa," she said, with a great effort to appear
at ease. "You must lie down--here will do--on this sofa; I 'll close
the curtain, and send over for Tiernay,--he said he should be back from
Limerick this morning."

A gentle pressure of her hand to his lips, and a faint smile, seemed to
assent.

She opened the window, and whispered a few words to the gardener; and
then, closing it noiselessly, drew the curtain, and sat down on a low
stool beside the sofa where he lay.

So still and motionless did he remain that she thought he
slept,--indeed, the long-drawn breathing, and the repose of his
attitude, betokened sleep.

Mary did not venture to move, but sat, one hand clasped in his, the
other resting on his forehead, still and silent.

The dark