'm tould, for keeping it off--get Mary to take a
glass of it; but mind now, for the love o' ye, never say it was me gav
it. There's bad blood between the Joyces and me, ye understand."

"Ay, ay, I know well enough," said the hag, clutching the bottle
eagerly, while opening a gate on the roadside, she hobbled on her way
towards Phil Joyce's cabin.

It was near evening as Owen was enabled to turn homewards; for besides
having a great many places to visit, he was obliged to stop twice to get
poor Patsy something to eat, the little fellow being almost in a state
of starvation. At length he faced towards the mountain, and with a sad
heart and weary step plodded along.

"Is poor Ellen buried?" said he, as he passed the carpenter's door,
where the coffin had been ordered.

"She's just laid in the mould--awhile ago."

"I hope Martin bears up better;--did you see him lately?"

"This is for him," said the carpenter, striking a board with his hammer;
"he's at peace now."

"Martin! sure he's not dead?--Martin Neale, I mean."

"So do I too; he had it on him since morning, they say; but he just
slipped away without a word or a moan."

"O God, be good to us, but the times is dreadful!" ejaculated Owen.

"Some says it's the ind of the world's comin'," said an old man, that
sat moving his stick listlessly among the shavings; "and 'twould be well
for most of us it was too."

"Thrue for you, Billy; there's no help for the poor."

No sentiment could meet more general acceptance than this--none less
likely to provoke denial. Thrown upon each other for acts of kindness
and benevolence, they felt from how narrow a store each contributed to
another's wants, and knew well all the privations that charity like this
necessitated, at the same time that they felt themselves deserted by
those whose generosity might have been exercised without sacrificing
a single enjoyment, or interfering with the pursuit of any accustomed
pleasure.

There is no more common theme than the ingratitude of the poor--their
selfishness and hard-heartedness; and unquestionably a life of poverty
is but an indifferent teacher of fine feelings or gentle emotions. The
dreary monotony of their daily lives, the unvarying sameness of the
life-long struggle between labour and want, are little suggestive of
any other spirit than a dark and brooding melancholy: and it were well,
besides, to ask, if they who call themselves benefactors have been
really generous, and n