ld say, "just on learning
accomplishments for myself alone; but now I have at last the chance of
helping others I must make the most of it, especially as it is in my own
dear Ireland."

"The lady" was soon well known amongst the neglected tenants of an
estate in Chancery. Her self-imposed duties increased from day to day.
The old dying man would take no food but from her hands. The Doctor
found her at his house one evening. She had cut herself badly in trying
to open a bottle for him, and was deadly pale. "I can't bear the sight
of blood," she confessed, and fainted on the earthen floor. It was with
gentle reverence that he carried her out and laid her on the cushions of
his car, spread by the roadside; but the sweet consciousness of having
for that one moment held her in his arms never left him when alone. In
her presence her frank friendliness drove away all idle dreams and
visions.

It was on a Sunday afternoon of September that Dr. Quin and Louise Eden
met again sadly at the house where they had first seen each ocher, that
of the Capels. They were called there by a sudden message that the poor
girl Mary was dying, and before they could obey the summons she had
passed away.

The little room was brighter now; a large-paned window, the gift of her
ministering friend, let the light fall upon the closed eyes. At the foot
of the bed hung a beautiful engraving of the Magdalen at the Saviour's
feet, while a bunch of tea-roses in a glass still gave out their
delicate fragrance. Neighbours were beginning to throng in, but gave
place to "the lady." The old father silently greeted her and wrung her
offered hand, but moved away without speaking. The mother, staying her
loud weeping, was less reserved.

"It's well you earned her indeed, miss," she said; "and she did be
thinking of you always. The poor child, she was ill for near ten months,
but I wouldn't begrudge minding her if it was for seven year. Sure I got
her the best I could, the drop of new milk and a bit o' white bread and
a grain o' tea in a while, and meself and the old man eatin' nothin' but
stirabout, and on Christmas night we had but a herrin' for our dinner,
not like some of the neighbours that do be scattering. Sure we never
thought she was goin' till this morning, when she bid us send for the
priest. And when she saw the old man crying, 'Father,' says she, 'don't
fret. I'll soon be in Heaven praying for you with me own Laurence.' Sure
she always said she'd