ther's sake, I would see what a
musket could do, I'd enlist, to a certainty. It is the best thing for
fellows like me." Thus musing and "mooning," he lay down, dressed as he
was, and fell asleep. And as he lay, there came a noiseless step to his
door, and the handle turned, and his mother drew nigh his bed, and bent
over him. "Poor Tony!" muttered she, as her tears gushed out. "Poor
Tony!" what a story in two words was there!--what tender love, what
compassionate sorrow! It was the outburst of a mother's grief for one
who was sure to get the worst at the hands of the world,--a cry of
anguish for all the sorrows his own warm heart and guileless nature
would expose him to,--the deceptions, the wrongs, the treacheries that
were before him; and yet, in all the selfishness of her love, she would
not have had him other than he was! She never wished him to be crafty
or worldly-wise. Ten thousand times was he dearer, in all his weakness,
than if he had the cunning of the craftiest that ever outschemed their
neighbors. "My poor boy," said she, "what hard lessons there are before
you! It is well that you have a brave, big heart, as well as a tender
one."

He was so like his father, too, as he lay there,--no great guarantee for
success in life was that!--and her tears fell faster as she looked at
him; and fearing that her sobs might awake him, she stole silently away
and left the room.

"There's the steam-whistle, mother; I can just see the smoke over the
cliff. I 'm off," said he, as she had dropped off asleep.

"But your breakfast, Tony; I 'll make you a cup of tea."

"Not for the world; I 'm late enough as it is. God bless you, little
woman. I 'll be back before you know that I 'm gone. Good-bye."

She could hardly trace the black speck as the boat shot out in the deep
gloom of daybreak, and watched it till it rounded the little promontory,
when she lost it; and then her sorrow--sorrow that recalled her
great desolation--burst forth, and she cried as they only cry who are
forsaken. But this was not for long. It was the passion of grief, and
her reason soon vanquished it; and as she dried her tears, she said,
"Have I not much to be grateful for? What a noble boy he is, and what a
brave good man he may be!"

CHAPTER II. A COUNTRY-HOUSE IN IRELAND

The country-house life of Ireland had--and I would say has, if I were
not unhappily drawing on my memory--this advantage over that of England,
that it was passed in that sea