ildren of the village and its
neighbourhood.

"Yes, Patsy," said Owen, kissing him, "your own Nony! you're coming home
with him to see what a nice house he has upon the mountain for you, and
the purty lake near it, and the fish swimming in it."

[Illustration: 104]

The little fellow clapped his hands with glee, and seemed delighted at
all he heard.

"Poor darlin'," muttered Owen, sorrowfully; "he doesn't know 'tis the
sad day for him;" and as he spoke, the wind from the valley bore on it
the mournful cadence of a death-cry, as a funeral moved along the road.
"His father's berrin'!" added he. "God help us! how fast misfortune does
be overtaking us at the time our heart's happiest! It will be many a day
before he knows all this morning cost him."

The little child meanwhile caught the sounds, and starting up in Owen's
arms, he strained his eyes to watch the funeral procession as it slowly
passed on. Owen held him up for a few seconds to see it, and wiped the
large tears that started to his own eyes. "Maybe Martin and poor Ellen's
looking down on us now!" and with that he laid the little boy back in
his arms and plodded forward.

It was but seldom that Owen Connor ascended that steep way without
halting to look down on the wide valley, and the lake, and the distant
mountains beyond it. The scene was one of which he never wearied;
indeed, its familiarity had charms for him greater and higher than mere
picturesque beauty can bestow. Each humble cabin with its little family
was known to him; he was well read in the story of their lives; he had
mingled in all their hopes and fears from childhood to old age; and,
as the lights trembled through the dark night, and spangled the broad
expanse, he could bring before his mind's eye the humble hearths round
which they sat, and think he almost heard their voices. Now, he heeded
not these things, but steadily bent his steps towards home.

At last, the twinkle of a star-like light shewed that he was near his
journey's end. It shone from the deep shadow of a little glen, in
which his cabin stood. The seclusion of the spot was in Owen's eyes its
greatest charm. Like all men who have lived much alone, he set no common
store by the pleasures of solitude, and fancied that most if not all of
his happiness was derived from this source. At this moment his gratitude
was more than usual, as he muttered to himself, "Thank God for it! we've
a snug little place away from the sickness, and n