, and I ax it again now,
for disturbing you; but I didn't know you, and I wanted to put my poor
father's body in the grave."

"I didn't know he was dead," said Phil, in a hollow voice, like one
speaking to himself. "This is poor little Billy here," and he pointed to
the mound at his feet.

"The heavens be his bed this night!" said Owen, piously; "Good night!"
and he turned to go away; then stopping suddenly, he added, "Maybe,
after all, you'll not refuse me, and the Lord might be more merciful to
us both, than if we were to part like enemies."

"Owen Connor, I ask your forgiveness," said Phil, stretching forth his
hand, while his voice trembled like a sick child's. "I didn't think the
day would come I'd ever do it; but my heart is humble enough now, and
maybe 'twill be lower soon. Will you take my hand?"

"Will I, Phil? will I, is it? ay, and however ye may change to me after
this night, I'll never forget this." And he grasped the cold fingers in
both hands, and pressed them ardently, and the two men fell into each
other's arms and wept.

Is it a proud or a humiliating confession for humanity--assuredly it is
a true one--that the finest and best traits of our nature are elicited
in our troubles, and not in our joys? that we come out purer through
trials than prosperity? Does the chastisement of Heaven teach us better
than the blessings lavished upon us? or are these gifts the compensation
sent us for our afflictions, that when poorest before man we should
be richest before God? Few hearts there are which sorrow makes not
wiser--none which are not better for it. So it was here. These men,
in the continuance of good fortune, had been enemies for life; mutual
hatred had grown up between them, so that each yearned for vengeance on
the other; and now they walked like brothers, only seeking forgiveness
of each other, and asking pardon for the past.

The old man was laid in his grave, and they turned to leave the
churchyard.

"Won't ye come home with me, Owen?" said Phil, as they came to where
their roads separated; "won't ye come and eat your supper with us?"

Owen's throat filled up: he could only mutter, "Not to-night,
Phil--another time, plaze God." He had not ventured even to ask for
Mary, nor did he know whether Phil Joyce in his reconciliation might
wish a renewal of any intimacy with his sister. Such was the reason of
Owen's refusal; for, however strange it may seem to some, there is a
delicacy of the heart a