before him strangely resembling those within which his youth had been passed, and the moonbeams played upon the waves just as he had seen them, when a boy, play on the eddies of the Loire. Trifling details of place or circumstance are the links by which our memory clings to the past. His thoughts left the scene before him, and hurried away across the sea. He was again in the hall of the old mansion. From a dark corner of the room he watched the group which sat by the fire. He heard them talk, and listened intently, when he discovered that the conversation was of him. His mother was surprised that no tidings had come from him of late. His father explained that in a soldier's life there is little time for letter-writing; but, even so, he doubted not that they should have letters from him soon. His sister sat and listened in silence, wondered that Heber did not think of them oftener, and then punished herself for thus accusing him by imagining him sick or wounded, and unable or unwilling to make known to them his misfortunes.

He was roused from his reverie by the shock of the boat against the rocks on which the castle stood. He hurriedly rose from his seat, and followed the aged steward up a rude stone stairs which led from the water's edge across what looked like a flower garden, and then beneath a low arch which admitted him into a narrow hall. At the further extremity of this narrow passage a bright stream of light issued from a half-open door, and bursts of noisy mirth, tributes to the sallies of the wit or story-teller of the servants' hall, issued from the lighted apartment, suggesting pleasing thoughts of home comforts to the weary cavalier. Midway down the passage he was traversing, his conductor turned to the right, mounted a narrow staircase, and opening the door of the "great hall," announced Captain Heber MacDermott. The master of Duneevin Castle advanced to meet his guest, welcomed him with unassumed cordiality, presented him to his daughters, to his kinsman, Mr. Plunkett, and lastly to an old man robed in a worn-out cassock, Father Edward O'Farrell, the family chaplain.

Supper had been waiting his arrival. It required but little persuasion to induce the soldier to do ample justice to the meal. He took scarcely any part in the animated conversation carried on between the host and Mr. Plunkett. They discussed the state of political parties and the recent movements of the opposing armies ; MacDermott, mindful of the warning he had received, listened attentively to the opinions expressed by the speakers, but was reserved in the expression of his own. Apart from the advice given him, this reserve would have been forced upon him by the feeling which he conceived towards the kinsman of his host. It is said that nature writes the character of the individual in the lineaments of his face, and that the symbols she uses are intelligible to all who give attention to the study of them. MacDermott, during his frequent residences in the French capital, had enjoyed rare oppor

tunities of becoming a proficient in the deciphering of these inscriptions. He had profited so well by these advantages that before he had passed many minutes in Mr. Plunkett's society, he determined to be extremely cautious in his communications with him. The frank, open countenance and unconstrained manner of his host were incompatible with duplicity, and defied distrust.

"And so you are bound for Ulster ?" said Arthur Dillon, after a somewhat prolonged pause in the conversation.

"Yes; I am entrusted by my Lord the Nuncio with communications for The O'Neill," returned MacDermott.

"I have heard that that general is making active preparations for a new expedition," interposed Plunkett. "What may be the number of men now under his command ?”

"I am unable to say," answered MacDermott. "I am comparatively a stranger in the country, and as yet know little of the resources of our friends or our enemies."

66

You have never visited Ulster before ?" asked Plunkett. "No.

It is but a short time since I first set foot on Irish soil. My duties have never called me so far north before."

"Pardon my curiosity," put in the old chaplain; "although your name is decidedly Irish, your accent would make me think you a Frenchman."

"I can to a certain extent claim to belong to both nations," replied MacDermott, smiling. "My father was, in his younger days, almost a neighbour of your own. He became a citizen of France a long time ago; but his love of Ireland has remained unchanged, and he is now happy that his son can take the place which he is too old to fill in the struggle for her liberty."

Something like a sarcastic smile played on Plunkett's pale face as he listened to the concluding words of the reply. Arthur Dillon gazed with unaffected admiration on his guest, and said with warmth:

"I could wish that our country had a host of such champions." The invalid Kathleen, who listened in silence to the conversation, bestowed a look of gratitude on the stranger who had come across the sea to fight in their defence. But the approving glance that shone in Mary Dillon's dark eyes, as they were raised to the face of the enthusiastic soldier, was a commendation more valued than all.

To the attentive observer woman's character reveals itself quickly; it is not necessary to place her in difficult or critical positions in order to prove her title to our esteem. There is enough in her manner of rendering the most trifling service or offering sympathy in the smallest misfortune to exhibit true natural gentleness and genuine kindness of heart; and these are the qualities which constitute the amiability of her character. Brilliant talents and high mental culture may render woman attractive; they can of themselves do little to make her amiable, and can never replace

in her those qualities of the heart which are the secret of her power over man.

MacDermott had been struck by the unostentatious affection of Mary Dillon for her feeble sister. He did indeed admit to himself that beauty superior to her's he had never gazed on before. He confessed to himself that her artless manner and simple attire outshone the haughty mien and gorgeous robes of the great dames whom he had seen sweep through the galleries of the Palais Royal in the train of Anne of Austria. But the charm which attracted him was not in the mould of her features nor in the bright flash of her dark eyes. Graces such as these he had seen in abundance, and he had gazed upon them unmoved. But when to these personal attractions was added a sweetness and gentleness which softened every glance of the eye and mellowed every tone of the voice, the combination was such as he had not seen before; and MacDermott felt that no sign of woman's favour had ever gratified him half so much as that glance of approval from Mary Dillon's eyes and that pleased smile on her lips. Motives of choice, then, as well as motives of prudence, induced him to direct the greater part of his conversation to the fair girl by whose side he was sitting.

Holding this island-fortress against his Majesty's troops, Miss Dillon is, doubtless, an ardent patriot ?" he inquired with a smile.

"If sympathy with the people be enough to make a patriot, I think I may boast of being one," she answered; and then continued in a more serious tone, "it would be hard not to sympathise with them. You who are a stranger can hardly picture to yourself what they have suffered."

"Unhappily I am no stranger to the horrors of war. I have seen them in their worst shape in my native country."

"Alas, sir! civilized warfare will hardly give you any idea of the way in which war is waged in this unfortunate land. It is but a year since both sides of the river were overrun by the soldiers of Stuart and Munroe. The tales of horror which their visit has left behind among the hapless peasants would freeze your blood. And now the troops of Sir Charles Coote are destroying whatever the first marauders spared."

"On my way from Kilkenny to Limerick," returned the soldier, "I had an opportunity of seeing the traces of his prowess which Inchiquin left behind him, and from these I can judge how war is conducted by the generals you speak of. But methought that precautions had been taken to save this province from such devastations."

"Yes, it was said that the forces of General Preston and Lord Clanrickarde had united to protect us, but they have not succeeded over well. Coote's horsemen still scour the country in all directions. You will permit me," she continued, with a show of interest

which made the heart of the soldier beat quicker than usual, "to warn you against the dangers which beset your march. The west bank of the river, which you must follow for some time, is often visited by troops of horse who have little respect for the articles of the cessation. You cannot be too much on your guard against a surprise. I speak like a politician or a soldier," she added, smiling sadly; "but here in this lonely isle we talk but of war and politics, and so I have come to assume a little of both characters."

"I am deeply indebted for the warning, and still more for the interest you are pleased to take in our safety," returned the soldier, with something more than gallantry in his tone.

"You doubtless find Miss Dillon an enthusiast in the national cause," broke in Plunkett, addressing himself to MacDermott.

"I find her an enthusiast in the cause of humanity, with which, if I mistake not, the national cause in Ireland is identified."

"No doubt, no doubt!" assented the master of Duneevin; "the rulers of Ireland have dealt harshly with its people."

"The severity has not been entirely unprovoked, "observed Plunkett; "the restlessness of the northern cosherers and creaghts could not fail to force the Government to harsh measures."

"You do not, surely, call the resentment of the dispossessed chieftains and peasantry of Ulster a justification of the barbarities of Coote and Inchiquin ?" asked the soldier, warmly. "It may be politically wise to destroy a people that has been robbed of everything that could give it an interest (in the maintaining of public order; but before the laws of justice and humanity, there is no excuse for the robbery or the murder. Perhaps, too, the time is at hand when the rulers of Ireland will learn that prudence as well as justice was on the side of mercy."

"I look forward to the issue with interest," said Plunkett, carelessly.

"And I with doubt and dark foreboding," said the host. "But we will not yet despair. To the triumph of King Charles!" he cried, filling his wine cup and bowing to his guests.

"If it mean the freedom of Ireland," said MacDermott, as he raised the goblet before him to his lips.

THE MONTH OF THE SACRED HEART.

UST now, and the varied shades of green

Stood out 'gainst the soft May sky full clear;
The lilac bloomed, and the chestnut waved,
And the fragrant thorn hid blushing near.
All day came the corncrake's twisted note,
The swallow's song with the stream made tune,
While the summer hours kept chiming sweet
Their prelude low for the coming June.

The deep mid-June and the Sacred Heart-
The Heart transpierced and the crimson tide,
The lance and rays, and the open wound,

Where the stricken ones and the tired may hide. Have our lips for Him no words of love?

Our souls no want, or no pain our life?

Have our hearts and hopes been wronged and tried, And spirit crushed in the world's rude strife?

As none beside, will He feel for us;

No pang or pain but His Heart once bore-
The parted friend and the fresh green grave;
And the chill neglect and spirit sore;
The unkind word, and the thoughtless act,
And love that perhaps met cold return-
He knows them all, and He is our God,
Whose Heart with pity and love doth burn.

The wild bird cooleth his purple wing
Where the lazy leaves still float alway,
The lily bends and the red rose droops,
And rapture breathes o'er the earth to-day.
'Tis our Lord's own Feast-the Feast of Love,
He pleads, as once by the olive tree,
From yearning depths of a human heart,

"Could you not watch yet an hour with me?"

We'll watch and pray, and we'll come to Him,
With the bleeding rose and the lily white,

The mignonette and the scented thyme,

And trembling star of the jessamine slight. We'll bring the flowers, and we'll bring our hearts, Our wants shall plead, and our weakness pray, For 'tis love's own feast, in deep mid-June, And God can reject no prayer to-day.

M. Mr. R.