witching at the trot of the Irishman's feet after the
wheelbarrow.

"Och, but we'll never get down there!" he said as he paused at
the top of a long slope. "Then I never knew before what a hard
time the carriage has to go after the horses! We'll never get
down there, yer honour?"

"Never's a great word, Michael."

"It is, sir!"

"I think you can get down there if you try."

"Very well, sir! -- I suppose I will."

But he muttered Irish blessings or cursings to himself as he
took up his trowsers and wheelbarrow handles again.

"Yer honour, do ye think we'll ever keep on our feet till the
bottom?"

"If you don't come down the wheelbarrow won't, I think,
Michael."

"Then I suppose we'll both be to come," said the man
resignedly. "Yer honour'll consider the bad way, I expict."

'His honour' had reason to remember it. They were going down
Bank St., where the fall of ground was rather rapid, and the
travel of the morning had not yet been enough to break up the
smooth glare of the frozen sleet. The Irishman and the barrow
got upon a run, the former crying out, "Och, it _will_ go, yer
honour!" -- and as it would go, it chose its own course, which
was to run full tilt against a cart which stood quietly by the
sidewalk. Neither Michael's gravity nor that of the
wheelbarrow could stand the shock. Both went over, and the
unlucky trunk was tumbled out into the middle of the street.
But the days when the old trunk could have stood such usage
were long past. The hasp and hinge gave way, the cover sprang,
and many a thing they should have guarded from public eyes
flew or rolled from its hiding place out upon the open street.

Winthrop from higher ground had beheld the overthrow, and knew
what he must find when he got to the bottom. Two or three pair
of the socks little Winnie had knitted for him had bounced out
and scattered themselves far and wide, one even reaching the
gutter. Some sheets of manuscript lay ingloriously upon the
wheelbarrow or were getting wet on the ice. One nicely "done
up" shirt was hopelessly done for; and an old coat had
unfolded itself upon the pavement, and was fearlessly telling
its own and its master's condition to all the passersby. Two
or three books and several clean pockethandkerchiefs lay about
indifferently, and were getting no good; an old shoe on the
contrary seemed to be at home. A paper of gingercakes, giving
way to the suggestions of the brother shoe, had bestowed a
quarter of its