ll now.

Never since the fatal illness which left O'Donoghue a widower, had
there been any thing like dangerous sickness in the house; and like most
people who have long enjoyed the blessings of uninterrupted health,
they had no thought for such a calamity, nor deemed it among the
contingencies of life. Now, however, the whole household felt the
change. The riotous laughter of the kitchen was silenced, the loud
speaking hushed, the doors banged by the wind, or the ruder violence
of careless hands, were closed noiselessly--every thing betokened that
sorrow was there. O'Donoghue himself paced to and fro in the chamber of
the old tower, now, stopping to cast a glance down the glen, where he
still hoped to see Mark approaching, now, resuming his melancholy walk
in sadness of heart.

In the darkened sick-room, and by the bed, sat Sir Archibald, concealed
by the curtain, but near enough to give assistance to the sick boy
should he need it. He sat buried in his own gloomy thoughts, rendered
gloomier, as he listened to the hurried breathings and low mutter-ings
of the youth, whose fever continued to increase upon him. The old
ill-tempered cook, whose tongue was the terror of the region she dwelt
in, sat smoking by the fire, nor noticed the presence of the aged fox
hound, who had followed Kerry into the kitchen, and now lay asleep
before the fire. Kerry himself ceased to hum the snatches of songs and
ballads, by which he was accustomed to beguile the weary day. There was
a gloom on every thing, nor was the aspect without doors more cheering.
The rain beat heavily in drifts against the windows; the wind shook the
old trees violently, and tossed their gnarled limbs in wild confusion,
sighing with mournful cadence along the deep glen, or pouring a long
melancholy note through the narrow corridors of the old house. The sound
of the storm, made more audible by the dreary silence, seemed to weigh
down every heart. Even the bare-legged little gossoon, Mickey, who had
come over from Father Luke's with a message, sat mute and sad, and as
he moved his naked foot among the white turf ashes, seemed to feel the
mournful depression of the hour.

"'Tis a dreadful day of rain, glory be to God!" said Kerry, as he drew
a fragment of an old much-soiled newspaper from his pocket, and took
his seat beside the blazing fire. For some time he persevered in his
occupation without interruption; but Mrs. Branaghan having apparently
exhausted her own re