ntly before him.

"Well, Martin, how is she?"

"I don't know, Owen dear," said he, in a faltering voice; "maybe 'tis
sleeping she is."

Owen followed him within the hut, and stooping down to the fire, lighted
a piece of bogwood to enable him to see. On the ground, covered only by
a ragged frieze coat, lay a young woman quite dead: her arm, emaciated
and livid, was wrapped round a little child of about three years old,
still sleeping on the cold bosom of its mother.

[Illustration: 096]

"You must take little Patsy away," said Owen in a whisper, as he lifted
the boy in his arms; "_she's_ happy now."

The young man fell upon his knees and kissed the corpse, but spoke not
a word; grief had stupified his senses, and he was like one but half
awake. "Come with me, Martin; come with me, and I'll settle every thing
for you." He obeyed mechanically, and before quitting the cabin, placed
some turf upon the fire, as he was wont to do. The action was a simple
one, but it brought the tears into Owen's eyes. "I'll take care of
Patsy for you till you want him. He's fond of me of ould, and won't
be lonesome with me;" and Owen wrapped the child in his greatcoat, and
moved forwards.

When they had advanced a few paces, Martin stopped suddenly and
muttered, "She has nothing to drink!" and then, as if remembering
vaguely what had happened, added, "It's a long sleep, Ellen dear!"

Owen gave the directions for the funeral, and leaving poor Martin in the
house of one of the cottiers near, where he sat down beside the hearth,
and never uttered a word; he went on his way, with little Patsy still
asleep within his arms.

"Where are you going, Peggy?" asked Owen, as an old lame woman moved
past as rapidly as her infirmity would permit: "you're in a hurry this
morning."

"So I am, Owen Connor--these is the busy times wid me--I streaked five
to-day, early as it is, and I'm going now over to Phil Joyce's. What's
the matter wid yourself, Owen? sit down, avich, and taste this."

"What's wrong at Phil's?" asked Owen, with a choking fulness in his
throat.

"It's the little brother he has; Billy's got it, they say.

"Is Mary Joyce well--did ye hear?"

"Errah! she's well enough now, but she may be low before night,"
muttered the crone; while she added, with a fiendish laugh, "her purty
faytures won't save her now, no more nor the rest of us."

"There's a bottle of port wine, Peggy; take it with ye, dear. 'Tis the
finest thing at all, I