quiem_ of the departed, a few--a very
few--immediate friends followed the body to the grave, in silence
unbroken. Sad hearts, indeed, they brought, and broken spirits; for in
this season of pestilence few dared to hope.

By noon, Owen was seen descending the mountain to the village, to make
the last preparations for the old man's funeral. He carried little Patsy
in his arms; for he could not leave the poor child alone, and in the
house of death. The claims of infancy would seem never stronger than in
the heart sorrowing over death. The grief that carries the sufferer in
his mind's eye over the limits of this world, is arrested by the tender
ties which bind him to life in the young. There is besides a hopefulness
in early life--it is, perhaps, its chief characteristic--that combats
sorrow, better than all the caresses of friendship, and all the
consolations of age. Owen felt this now--he never knew it before. But
yesterday, and his father's death had left him without one in the world
on whom to fix a hope; and already, from his misery, there arose that
one gleam, that now twinkled like a star in the sky of midnight. The
little child he had taken for his own was a world to him; and as he
went, he prayed fervently that poor Patsy might be spared to him through
this terrible pestilence.

When Owen reached the carpenter's, there were several people there;
some, standing moodily brooding over recent bereavements; others, spoke
in low whispers, as if fearful of disturbing the silence; but all were
sorrow-struck and sad.

"How is the ould man, Owen?" said one of a group, as he came forward.

"He's better off than us, I trust in God!" said Owen, with a quivering
lip. "He went to rest this morning."

A muttered prayer from all around shewed how general was the feeling of
kindness entertained towards the Connors.

"When did he take it, Owen?"

"I don't know that he tuk it at all; but when I came home last night he
was lying on the bed, weak and powerless, and he slept away, with scarce
a pain, till daybreak; then--"

"He's in glory now, I pray God!" muttered an old man with a white beard.
"We were born in the same year, and I knew him since I was a child, like
that in your arms; and a good man he was."

"Whose is the child, Owen?" said another in the crowd.

"Martin Neale's," whispered Owen; for he feared that the little fellow
might catch the words. "What's the matter with Miles? he looks very low
this morning."

Th