A BUSY and expectant crowd was moving to and fro upon the wharf at Belfast, a few hours before the ship "St. Patrick" set sail. The crew were hastening about in the final, busy preparations for a long voyage. Groups of friends gathered here and there to say hopeful, parting words to those who were about to seek better fortunes than poor Ireland could give, or, wearied with the scenes of oppression and bloodshed that desolated their homes, turned away to seek gladder, freer homes in other lands.

Among the several groups on deck, was one of a mother in the midst of her six priceless treasures. One, a flaxen-haired girl, slender and delicately featured, was evidently the especial favorite of a manly brother, who now and then coaxed her away, and, with a wise, important air, explained the uses of the mazes of rigging that stretched above them, or, for her amusement, climbed the ropes with an agility and recklessness that called forth more fear than admiration from his gentle sister.

"I'm going to be captain of a ship some day, you see, Mary," said he, sliding quickly and lightly down to where she stood, her mouth and eyes dilated with fear. "You're not afraid' child! You don't suppose I'd fall, do you?" laughed he, as he followed her back to where the rest were gathered.

There sat Azile, the one of dark eyes and rich complexion, with her massive, glossy hair wound about her head in heavy braids. Her air was neither timid nor bold. Pride, and a consciousness of her own worth, without conceit, gave her a queenly air that was perfectly in keeping with the self-reliance and decision of character expressed in her face. She was the opposite, in every respect, of the spiritual, transparent, fragile Mary. A chubby little sister stole away from them whenever she could free herself from protection, and followed the bounding footsteps of young Willie, who darted off in every direction to find occupation for his busy eyes and mischievous fingers. When teeming with wonderful discoveries, he hastened to unfold them to his father, who paced the deck or looked silently off on land, and only noticed the enthusiastic stories by resting his hand kindly upon the clustered curls that lay like a golden crown upon the loved boy's head; his thoughts were with the land he was leaving; he was sad in relinquishing it for a strange, new home, in far-off America.

Love of nation is nowhere stronger than with the Irish. Even the poor, famished creature upon the barren heaths devotedly kisses the very turf that scarcely yields a potato to his salt! This love of country struggled for the mastery in Colonel Neilson's heart. He had reluctantly decided to abandon his native land, after assuring himself of the inextinguishable feud between the two religious parties, the hopelessness of invoking liberty and peace to these shores.  Influenced, too, by his wife's persuasions, he disposed of his possessions at great sacrifice, and now went to claim America as the land of his adoption.

While he stood dispirited and doubting, his I attention was attracted by exclamations of distress from among the crowd upon the wharf. A weeping girl was closely clasped in the arms of her mother, who entreated her not to go from her, and filled the air with cries of grief.

"Ohone! Norah, how can ye be going over the sae that will be dhrowning ye long afoor ye sets fut on the shore? My eyes'll ne'r light on the like of ye, darlint. Och! Norah, ye shall not be takin' yersel' away," exclaimed she, in a wailing tone that expressed the deepest sorrow. The bystanders looked on with curiosity or sympathy, and the sailors swore at the delay occasioned by the mother's refusal to allow the chest that contained all Norah's possessions, to be conveyed on ship-board.

"Kathleen, that is our Norah. We shall have trouble in getting her off," said Colonel Neilson, turning to his wife. He went out upon the wharf, expostulated with the mother, and endeavored to quiet her fears by glowing descriptions of the little fortune her daughter would acquire, of her return home, or of friends who would join her in America; but it was all useless; he receive but one reply a long, loud wail, mingled with broken exclamations. Thus he left them and consoled himself, as best he might, with the remembrance of her passage having been paid, and the inconvenience to his wife of being left without a servant. "Sloan must be all the more faithful," soliloquized he, as he returned to the upper deck. The last glimpse they had of Norah and her mother was when the two sat smiling and happy upon the bottom of a low, jaunting-car that was to trundle them through the streets of Belfast, and miles beyond, to their humble dwelling.

The hour of departure arrived; the sails were unfurled to a fresh breeze, and amid shouts, fluttering handkerchiefs, and waving hats, the ship floated slowly away. Several days of fair weather and brisk winds wafted her far away upon the ocean. Then succeeded long weeks of wearied endurance of calms and storms, and the uncomfortable monotony of a long voyage in a close, crowded ship. The first few days, succeeding recovery from sea-sickness, passed pleasantly with the Neilson family, while amused with the novelty of affairs on ship-board, or looking off upon the boundless ocean and talking of its hidden wonders, watching the waves roll heavily back as the ship briskly ploughed through the waters; or standing amazed, at the stern, watching the phosphorescent light that gleamed and danced like fire-flies in the wake of the vessel.

One morning, when Kathleen had exchanged the close air of the cabin for a pure, fresh breeze on deck, her motherly eye fell upon a young boy, who consoled his weeping sister in an almost unintelligible jargon, which at once stamped him a southern Catholic. They had evidently strayed from among the steerage passengers, and now sat quite alone upon some coiled ropes near the stern.

"What troubles your sister?” asked Kathleen. At her words, a pale face, with swollen eyes, looked out from behind the crumpled folds of an apron that served to dry her tears.

"Indade, misthress, it's pinin' for ould Ireland, she is. She’d be takin' hersel' back but for the wather that 'ouldn't lave her brogues dthry, I'm thinkin'."

"Are you alone?" resumed the questioner, with a look and tone of sympathy that at once opened the full hearts of the voyagers.

"If ye’ll bide wi' Lus a bit, I’ll tell ye for the matther o' that," eagerly replied the boy, to which followed a rapid account of themselves. Kathleen gathered from it that their mother had preceded them to America and earned sufficient to send for them.

"It was the storm itsel' that frighted Biddy, and where's the wondther, for if we'd ha' been fast at the bottom o' the sae, where's the praste that would ha' knowed to say prayers to fetch the souls of us out o' purgatory."

"Och, Mike, have n't we said prayers to the Vargin these tin days to kape us out o' the waves? It's not that. Ye see, ma'am, I was afeard the ship had gone asthray, for we've not clapt eyes on the turf sin' we lighted on the ship. An' for a' that there's som'at the mat1 ther among us. Thase foor days the women and childers ha' sickened, an' the men, too, for a' that. Last night there was no slape for me eyes, for seein' the two of 'em carried away dead; and didn't they throw 'em to the fishes in the dead o' night without a mass or sac mich as a candle to light 'em? Ochrane! we’ll niver see the blessed turf again!" exclaimed she, bursting into a fresh torrent of tears.

Kathleen tried to console her with the promise of caring for them till they joined their mother, but Biddy's account of sickness, and the secret burials, aroused her suspicions of the presence of a pestilence. Hastening to Colonel Neilson, she made known her fears. After closely questioning these children, he could not conceal the alarm he felt, for one of his own lay ill and feverish that morning. He was soon in close consulation with the captain, from whom he heard what could no longer be concealed – the yellow fever was fast claiming victims from among them. To fly for safety was the first instinct, not for his own sake, but to ensure the lives of those whom he held dear; second thought brought the certainty that there was no escape. They were hedged in with the fatal pestilence. With a shooting, sickening pain at his heart, he sought Kathleen, who still stood listening to Biddy's history. He could only utter the words that have paled many a cheek as surely as if they contained the dread death summons "It is the yellow fever!"

Every feature in Kathleen's face expressed the keenest anguish during the moment she remained silent.

"Our Mary!" was all she could say as they turned away to seek the one who seemed marked for the first victim. Poor young Biddy and Mike returned to their close, infected quarters with renewed fears, yet consoled in having won the sympathy of a kind heart.

Another sun-rise found the seal of death upon the features of the gentle, timid Mary. The hands of a loving mother arrayed the slight form in a snowy robe, in preparation for the sad burial in the waves. Sometimes she ceased her sad task, clasped the lifeless child close to her bosom, as though to win back her life again, but no caresses returned her fondness, and she resumed her task with fast-flowing tears. Azile severed a long lock from the waving, silken hair that had won for the lost the appellation of "floating glory," from the brother who had loved her so dearly.

"I feared Mary would die," said Joe, "for she always looked to me like an angel." His eyes clung to the cold, tranquil face till it was hidden from sight in the folds of the winding sheet. He kept close beside the shrouded form, watching every movement with jealous eyes, lest the sailors should not carry her gently. But it was not until the weeping family gathered near the dead, and a touching prayer ascended, that Joe realized the terror of an ocean burial. It all came back to him how Mary had stood there with him a few days before, when they talked of the ocean's mysteries. He remembered with dreadful distinctness how she clung to him when she said, "I should love to go down among the shells and caves; but wouldn't I you be afraid of the great fishes, Joe?" little thinking how soon her form would glide down the liquid depths.

He could no longer keep silent, but gave vent to his grief, and threw his arms over the hidden form as if to shield it. The sailors tore him away, and, quickly fastening weights to the winding-sheet, gently dropped into the dark waves all that remained of the loved Mary. Azile strained her eyes after the sinking form till the surging waves rolled over it and separated them forever. Colonel Neilson turned away from the sight, and went below to watch beside Kathleen, who had been carried to her berth insensible. She had no reliance upon God to support her under this trial, and the many that were yet to discipline her into a God acknowledging life. For days they had but faint hopes of her recovery from an illness that followed her bereavement. She knew nothing of another death – that of Sloan, whose terror at finding himself shut in with the terrible pestilence, made him an easy victim. He would have torn it from him; he writhed and struggled in its frightful grasp, and at last sunk helpless under the. stroke of death, with no hope beyond the mysterious tomb, wherein his sleeping, giant form found a place among the hosts who people the ocean's bed.

Another week passed away and yet there was no abatement of the pestilence. More than sixty had found a grave in the track of the fated ship. Colonel Neilson had constantly exerted himself to infuse cheerfulness and courage in such as remained free from the disease, and provided every possible means to ensure the safety of his family. He had believed his efforts sucessful, till one day the youngest – the much loved Willie, sank weak and feverish upon his bed. Kathleen, scarcely able to stand, dragged herself to the dark, narrow berth near her own; fear and anxiety for this idol of her flock, gave her unnatural strength to watch over him. Nothing could persuade her to leave him, when she beheld the rapid strides of the disease, and saw that he was marked for death. Every moment of his fast-waning life was precious to her. At last he turned to her and asked,

"Mother, will you hear me say my prayers?"

She had been faithful in teaching her children the beautiful daily prayer of "Our Father," and gladly gave her assent. Willie faintly struggled to raise himself from the pillow; with his mother's sustaining arm he gained a kneeling posture and folded his hands together. Innocence and purity beamed in the pale but rounded face, about which clustered shining, golden curls; a fit crown for the dying child, already as beautiful as a white-robed angel.

"Our Father" he spoke faintly, then stopped; his hands dropped beside him, and he fell heavily back in his mother's arms. Wille was dead.

The next morning a dark mass of clouds swept up from the horizon. Every sailor was at his post. The sails were furled, and the ship made ready for a battle with the storm. In the midst of these rapid preparations, Colonel Neilson came on deck, bearing in his arms his best loved boy, who lay 'calmly unconscious of the warring sounds about him.

"Is he dead?" sorrowfully asked the sailors, as they glanced by him in the quick performance of duty.

"Pity he could not have been saved," said an old weather-beaten sailor, who came to assist in the burial. He thought of the hours he had frollicked away with the gleesome child, making miniature ships and wooden chains, or telling him strange stories of the deep, till he had grown to love the sunny-hearted boy. Tears rolled over his sun-burnt, wrinkled face, as he hastily sewed up the winding-sheet. The winds played fiercely along the deck, blowing and tossing the close curls back from the pure, smooth brow of the dead child, and then whirled away among the furled sails and the rattling rigging, with a dismal, whistling howl. Dizzily the ship rocked to and fro, keeping time to the wild dirge and I lullaby of the storm-spirit's song. Closer and closer drew the folds around the unconscious sleeper till at last the dimpled arm, then the sweet face, disappeared, and only those crowning curls remained without the shroud. Colonel Neilson could not restrain a groan of anguish as this last glimpse was shut from him. A few moments more and the child was poised upon a high, foam-crested wave, then descended swiftly into the boiling surge. Down, down, among the caves and rocks the fair child sank, to

" – toss with tangle and with shells,"

but up – up, far beyond the wild storm, rose his angel spirit, to be with the "Father," whose name had been sweetly breathed -out with his life.

Several weeks afterwards the St. Patrick cast anchor below Staten Island, and prepared to send the passengers ashore, where they were to perform quarantine. Glad to escape the infected ship, Colonel Neilson eagerly placed his remaining family in the boat that had been immediately lowered. Several heavy chests, containing the most valuable of their effects, were placed in the bottom. All things in readiness, they gladly pushed from the ship; the oars rose and fell with a right good will, and, like freed prisoners, each occupant of the boat smiled gladly upon the other, neither noticing or caring for the inconvenience of the water that oozed in. A sailor quietly busied himself in bailing it out, till presently he acknowledged that his efforts did not prevent its gradual increase. The oarsmen began to move more rapidly, and Colonel Neilson assisted in dashing out the water. They all worked in silence and with rapidity, but it was soon evident the boat had sprung a leak, and they were yet nearly two miles from shore.

"The chests must go overboard," said the sailor, ceasing from his work. Two, heavily laden, were plunged into the water. Again, labor was resumed, but danger every moment increased. Unable longer to restrain her fears, Kathleen uttered shriek after shriek in a clear shrill voice that echoed along the shore. Terror gave greater force to a voice long noted for its strength and clearness in song, and it did them a life-service now; for it rang upon the ears of those on shore, and attracted their notice to the fluttering shawl she shook above her most vehemently. Skiffs quickly shot out from the beach, and glanced swiftly over the bay, reaching the half-drowned voyagers in time to rescue them from threatened death. The sinking boat was already nearly filled with water; the terrified children, drenched in the unwelcome bath, gladly followed their mother into a dry skiff, and were soon safe upon terra-firma.

Tents were erected on shore for those remaining in health, while the sick, among whom Biddy and Mike were included, were placed in the already crowded hospital. From morning till night, and from night till morning, the dull, heavy sound of the hammer resounded without and within the hospital, closing the dead in their rude pine coffins – a sad death-knell to the inconsolable mother, who walked back and forth on the beach, calling upon the sea to give back her dead.

One morning, soon after her arrival, while she stood looking out upon the bay, her sympathies were roused at the sight of a poorly clad woman who remained before the gates of the hospital, weeping, and entreating everyone who passed her, to gain her admittance, where she had been peremptorily refused. No communication with the city was permitted, though the pestilence was stealing a slow but sure march within its precincts. Having herself suffered, Kathleen pitied the tears of the poor woman, approached and questioned her. She discovered in her the mother of the lonely young voyagers, Biddy and Mike, whom she had taken a friendly interest in, and had visited in the hospital. Her admittance was not disputed, as the resident physician was an old, well-tried friend from Dublin. Never at a loss for expedients in difficulty, Kathleen induced the woman to follow her, and, concealed behind one of the divisions of the tent she occupied, quickly exchanged dress, bonnet and shawl with the applicant.

"Now go," said she, "and when you pass, do not let your face be seen. Give my name, and they will readily admit you." A few directions as to where she would find her children, and she was on her way to them with a beating heart. Entering a large apartment, and looking eagerly at each invalid in the long rows ranged on either side, she passed on, till her motherly eye recognized her daughter, in spite of two years' separation and the ravages of disease. Clasping Biddy in her arms, she wept convulsively, while the poor child, separated from her brother, surrounded by strange, new faces, and hearing only the groans of the dying, was ready to shout her joy at claiming a mother. An expression of perfect content diffused itself over her hitherto sad face. Rejoiced at having found one child, the mother hastened to seek the other. Mike lay in a room above, in the midst of other long lines of invalids, and here she found him in near approach to death. He did not recognize her till her familiar and well-remembered voice fell upon his ear. Looking fixedly in her face, and speaking with a faint smile, "Mother!" he said no more, but still kept gazing till the spark of life went out, and he lay still and dead before her. But he had seen her; he had spoken before life was extinct, and she was there to perform the last sad offices, and see him laid decently in the grave an unspeakable consolation to the mourning mother.

Biddy slowly recovered, but not until after Kathleen had gone from the uncomfortable tented home on the beach, and was following the beautiful windings of the Hudson. She carried with her the grateful blessings of the mother and daughter, who were eventually lost to her in the crowded metropolis, where they lived and labored.

ALONG the northern banks of the Hoosick river, in Eastern New-York, were scattered, many years ago, the substantial farm-houses of wealthy Dutch settlers, who almost exclusively occupied that region of country. The Hoosick rolled its wealth of waters in beautiful curves, between banks that, upon one side, fell back in a broad, luxurious valley, and upon the other, rose in verdant hills, crowned with giant oaks. A road skirted the hill-side bank, but the opposite was thickly bordered with low, bushy trees and willows that dipped their long, drooping branches into the flowing river. The wild raspberry and tangled grape-vine flourished in untrained profusion – seemingly left in contrast with the orderly kept farms, or better yet, reserved for the walks of young lovers when they

A bridge, in no way noted for its architecture, spanned the river at a point where the highway came up from the valley, thus bringing into closer neighborhood the farmers who lived along the valley road with those whose possessions lay on the slopes of "Oak Hills." Away over these hills, stretched the broad, well-tilled acres of the independent farmers, whose long, low, Dutch houses betrayed the foreign origin of their owners. The steep roofs, curving out into shady porticoes, the thick stone walls, irregular windows with their wooden shutters, and great double doors at the entrance, looked entirely unlike the quickly built frame-work distinguishing the American domicils. The difference was equally plain within.

The most spacious among them was owned by a sturdy, well-to-do Dutchman, called Van Theusan, who prided himself greatly upon his worldly goods, among which were some twenty or thirty slaves. He was-not singular in this, however, as nearly every farmer in the neighborhood could boast the ownership of at least half-a-dozen negroes, who, by dint of much urging and constant faultfinding on the part of masters, succeeded in preserving order on the farms and in the numerous, well-stored out-houses.

Dame Van Theusan was a notable housewife. Up in the morning before the sun, her feet went patter, patter, over the white, sanded floors, and her tongue more than kept time, while she scolded in genuine Dutch. A bunch of keys jingled noisily at her side as she hastened from one room to another, giving orders to the various servants, in a high, sharp key, scolding one, boxing another, and shaking the sleepy ones, till her directions were most thoroughly obeyed.

"Missus do nothin' but scold, nigger do no-thin' but scour! Scour, scold from Monday mornin' till de solemn Saturday night!" was poor Rosy's, exclamation, as she went reluctantly to scrub the floors that were already white and shining. Her only consolation was in seeing her companions at the equally useless task of waxing and polishing the unspotted furniture, or flourishing among the array of tins already flashing with brightness. A dozen others, who had been roused at daylight, were busy with the loom and shuttle in one of the long outhouses, weaving out counterpanes, linen, and the material for their own coarse clothing. The accumulations of their labor were visible in the full store rooms when Dame Van Theusan deigned to unlock them. Heavy piles of house hold linen and bedding of every variety, were stored here, as a portion of the dowry of her children, beside all required in her own time.

But despite the thrifty, busy, orderly household over which the active vrow presided, she only outdid her neighbors in the art of scolding, for the most of them were proverbially neat. The few Yankee farmers scattered about, who had not slaves, labored most industriously to vie with their wealthy competitors. The sun-burnt owners followed the plow from early dawn till evening, and with their sturdy sons, reaped the rich harvests. Their daughters, within doors, sped cheerily to their tasks, and, with pleasant words, and sometimes a song, hastened to the milking, or dashed away at the churn, fed the poultry, scoured, brushed and swept, all with an alacrity and interest which a slave can never feel. There was no din of harsh words from morning till night, but the hum and buzz of the spinning wheel kept time to the passing seconds till the quiet of evening came; even then, busy fingers plied the swift knitting-needles, while the sisters sat chatting in the doorway, sometimes passing a merry joke with the brothers, who rested on the fresh grass.

But whether slaves or freemen tilled these farms, all bore abundant harvests, and were refreshing to look upon, as they stretched along the river-side upon the hills and through the valley, dotted with quaint farm-houses, shaded with a few remnants of the old forests, and watered by the river.

So thought an Irish land-holder, just from his native isle, as he rode slowly over Oak Hills and down. to the river-side. For a few moments he reigned in his horse to survey leisurely the country that lay before him, then galloped across the bridge and away through the valley. After scanning the valley farms, he returned slowly, and, as he recrossed the bridge, smilingly said to himself, "Our home shall be here."

A short ride brought him to the gateway of the Van Theusan farm-house, where he alighted to make inquiries. The round-faced, portly Dutchman sat in the shade of the low porch, comfortably puffing long spirals of smoke from his meerschaum. As the new comer approached, he arose to meet him, and gave him a cordial welcome, when he learned his intention to settle among them. Colonel Neilson's rolling accent sounded strangely to the ears of the Van Theusans, for he was the first emigrant from the Emerald Isle that had come upon their domains. His good humored frankness and enthusiastic admiration of their American homes, quickly won their interest and hospitality.

After a social repast and an hour's consultation, the purchase of a portion of land on the opposite bank of the river was decided upon, but the question yet remained to be settled as to where his family should find a home while preparing a new one. A house to let was not to be found within fifteen miles, with the exception of a humble log structure that stood back in the forest which bordered the east limits of the farm.

"A rude home it is, indeed, but, for a wild nook, I have never seen the like of it," exclaimed the Irish enthusiast, after he had clambered up the forest path, noted the rocky bed of the stream that ran before it, listened, delighted, to the dashing of the waterfall and its echoes in the woods, and gathered a few of the wild flowers that clung in the crevices of the rocks. This was all novel and charming to Colonel Neilson.

The house, built of rough hewn logs, stood near the banks of the stream just above the waterfall. Its dimensions were limited enough, and its neglected look made even the good-natured Colonel shrug his shoulders, when he thought of bringing his wife to such a home. He consoled his doubts, however, with the intention of thorough repairs, which would render it entirely comfortable till more commodious quarters were prepared.

"Kathleen will, soon have it covered with vines and surrounded with flowers, and we can surely make it cheerful within," said he, fully inclined to make the best of it.

Several weeks had gone by, when, one bright morning, Dame Van Theusan bethought herself of the strangers who had that day taken possession of the log house in the woods, and, rightly judging they might need assistance, sent one of her house-slaves, Dinah, to see what could be done. Dinah had been absent scarcely an hour, when she came running back, breathless and so wonder-struck that she -could scarcely tell her story.

"Oh, missusl do come right off! I niver seed sich queer peoples. De fine lady, thur she sits, all dressed in white, and cryin' like a baby, 'cause she can't riz a finger to scour them dirty floors. An' the childers-- oh, massy I they're all curiousest things I ever laid eyes on. De boys' breeches only's down to thur knees, wid long, silk stockin's, and shnin' buckles on thur shoes. An' de leetle gals, why, missus, thur frocks be slit up all de way down behind, and shows off de splendid pink petticoats to devantage. De house be full of chists, too, an' massy . knows what's in 'em!"

Dinah would have talked all day, had not her mistress frowned upon her and sent her for another servant to return with her. Dame Van Theusan, though severe with her slaves, was as kind as need be to her friends. She hastened to fill a basket with fresh bread, tea, and jars of sweetmeats, as a present to the new comers. She was soon on her way through the fields, followed by Dinah and Rosy, bearing the heavily-laden basket. On approaching the woods, they met the children running hither and thither, delighted with the novelty of rambling in the woods. Dinah had not given an exaggerated description of them. Joe and Terence looked odd enough to the Americanized visitors, in their blue jackets and short clothes, silver knee buckles and broad crimped ruffles, which stood out stiffly from their necks.' The chubby little sister ran after them, stopping every other step to gather the hosts of blossoms, from which her little feet pressed out the fragrance wherever she trod. But upon perceiving the approach of the two blacks, with their shiny eyes and teeth in ebony setting, they every one turned and fled to the house in terror. Even Joe, courageous as he was, walked rapidly towards home, though he disdained to run. Dame Van Theusan followed them, laughing heartily. Upon approaching the door, she was not a little surprised to see a dignified woman, of perhaps thirty-five years, robed in a fine, white morning dress, sitting upon a huge chest and weeping bitterly. Azile stood near her mother, trying to console her, and heartily wishing herself back in Ireland.

Dame Van Theusan immediately offered her services towards acquiring order in the confused house. Dinah and Rosy even set to work briskly, while their mistress occupied herself in unpacking from the chests some of the endless, household paraphernalia. Before evening, the rooms were comfortably neat, and furnished with an air of cozy pleasantness that imparted new courage to Kathleen. A bright fire was kindled on the wide hearth, and the tea-kettle swung upon the crane, humming and steaming away with great zeal. The table was spread with snow-white damask from the newly-opened chests, and set with the tempting viands provided by the thoughtful neighbor. Colonel Neilson came in, delighted with the already cheerful aspect which their humble quarters had assumed; while they sat at the evening repast, he so mingled mirth with accounts of his future plans that Kathleen forgot her despondency and tears, and joined heartily in the laugh. Dame Van Theusan left them enjoying the novelty of their new home, and returned to her family, happy in having cheered the stranger.

The next day the curiosity among the slaves in the neighborhood to see the Irish settlers, was not to be overcome by threats. One by one they stole quietly from their labors and took a peep into the new domicile, with a broad grin on their faces, to the no small terror of the occupants. Kathleen could not devise means to get rid of the annoyance, which was doubly alarming during the absence of her husband. Once, while alone for several days, she was tormented with the suspicion that a pair of rolling eyes had seen the hiding place of a can of gold, which she had adroitly concealed beneath the floor. Fear banished sleep, till at last, wearied with constant apprehension, she sprang up at midnight, giving vent to an impatient exclamation, and brought forth the troublesome treasure. Thrusting her feet into a pair of slippers, and throwing a shawl over her head, she turned back the button from the door-latch and stepped out into the open path, shaded from the moonlight by the thick foliage above her. Hiding the weighty can beneath her shawl, she hastened through the dim woods, then into the open fields and down to the Van Theusan homestead. Knowing her kind neighbor's apartment, she gave a quick, sharp tap upon the window. The sash was soon thrown up by the aroused sleeper, who inquired her errand in astonishment. Kathleen replied by pushing the can upon the window-sill, and entreated her to take charge of it. The usual gravity of the active dame was overcome, and she shook with laughter at Kathleen's earnest account of the ebony-skinned intruders, and her fears lest she should be both murdered and robbed. They were grinning demons to her excited imagination. She was somewhat pacified by her neighbor's assurances of their harmless curiosity; relieved, too, of the care of the treasure, she retraced her steps homeward through the fields and woods, reaching the cottage safely, and returned to her sleeping children, with infinite satisfaction at the removal of the cause of her constant fears.

JUST a year expired before the new frame house, with its pleasant adornings, was ready for the reception of the first and only Irish family that had yet settled in that region; and a year of vexation, weariness, and unaccustomed labor, it had been to Kathleen, who, hitherto, had found her wants gratified without exertion on her own part. That year, too, had brought a fair little girl that was the wonderment of all the neighborhood. A bevy of dark faces came peeping in every day with the good wishes of their mistress, and to gratify their curiosity in seeing the wonderful Irish baby, so plump and so delicately fair. The Widow Ranstein, who lived in a spacious stone house on the hill, came herself to see the first-born emigrant child. Nothing would do but it must be named Christine, for herself; henceforth she lavished her kindness and affection upon the little favorite.

When Christine grew tall and playful, she was the pet of all the neighborhood. Home was scarcely home to her, for she was as familiar with the nooks and corners of the old Dutch farm-houses, as with those of her own pleasant dwelling. Her favorite resort was at the sombre, stone house of her namesake. Widow Hanstein had parted with her four daughters, who were married and settled near her, upon adjoining farms. They had taken with them the slaves that had fallen to their inheritance, after their father's death, and now the widow lived alone with her remaining slaves. "Old Mam" and "Old Dad," were the most conspicuous among her retinue, both being far advanced in years. "Dad" was tall, still erect, and walked with firm footing. He was Christine's favorite, for he was always delegated to bring her in his arms to make the frequent visits the lonely widow claimed.

She was never so delighted as when taking tea out of the wee gilt cups that graced Widow Hanstein's round table, or when counting the multiplied objects on the shining surface of the old-fashioned, silver tea-set. Christine was seated in a high-backed chair, and just able to peep over the table. The old lady always sat opposite. She wore a close-fitting cap and a wide check apron, scrupulously smooth, even to the strings – an article of dress indispensable to her comfort. She chatted with her garrulous little guest, and complacently sipped her six cups of fragrant tea, now and then replenishing the child's plate with spongy bread, spread with snowy, Dutch cheese.

When the tea things were removed, Christine jumped down from her high perch, to count the landscapes and figures that decorated the china settings in the jams of the huge mantel; laughed at her distorted image in the oval-topped and brightly polished andirons that curved out from the great fire-place; or measured the square tiles of the spotless hearth with her busy little foot. She was an amusing companion for the solitary widow, who claimed her as one of her own.

But as much variety as there might be in this child-life, the days passed monotonously enough to Colonel Neilson. His thoughts were continually turning back to his loved, native isle, now that he had done all he could to embellish his new home. He would walk for hours in the garden, silent and dispirited; or, with Kathleen at his side, wander through the woods, where, seated upon the trunk of a fallen tree or mossy log, they would recall the happiness of their early years in Ireland. Kathleen sung ballads to sooth him; sometimes she tried to laugh away his melancholy, or strove to arouse him with her remonstrances. The three years passed on American soil, seemed to have deprived him of the vigor, ambition, and cheerful temperament that had been peculiarly his in his own land. The lively, radiant expression of good humor in his face, had given place to a dispirited, discontented look, which deeply grieved Kathleen.

Their monotonous life was at length broken in upon by the unexpected arrival of one of Kathleen's relatives, Annorah Synton, now the wife of Hugh O'Neal. The latter was only known to them as one who had abandoned priests' orders for the sake of an unconquerable attachment to Annorah. Impetuous, passionate, daring to recklessness, he had rejected the Catholic faith, sacrificed everything, and dared the vengeance of his brotherhood, for the object of his adoration. He boldly swept away every obstacle that stood between him and his idol.

The year following their marriage was one of, continual danger. Repeated attempts upon O'Neal's life, though thwarted by his vigilance, warned him of the necessity of flight. An American home was decided upon, and, with a young child, whose beauty was a theme of wonder, they embarked for western shores.

Their arrival was a sudden surprise to Kathleen, who greeted them with unbounded joy. Colonel Neilson, who had gone to sun himself in the good-humored and unvarying tranquillity of one of his Dutch neighbors, quickly turned homeward upon hearing the welcome tidings. With a gleam of pleasure that had not lit his face for many a long day, he greeted the sweet young wife, whose bewitching loveliness no longer left room for wonder at the beguilement of O'Neal. Then he smilingly approached his guest with the interest of welcome and congratulation, but, before their hands met in the clasp of friendship, an expression of utter abhorrence spread over his face, and his hand dropped, as if powerless. The blood crimsoned to purple in Hugh O'Neal's face, but he gazed steadily and i undaunted at Colonel Neilson. For a moment, each scrutinized the features of the other.

"We met near Ellphin," said Colonel Neilson, significantly and sternly.

"Will you betray me to Annorah? Do you want her to hate me?" fiercely replied the unwelcome guest. Colonel Neilson made no response, for the entrance of Annorah and Kathleen cut short what he would have said. Too much occupied in each other to observe the agitation of the gentlemen, they continued their lively accounts of long unheard-of friends, and the experience of American life.

When next Kathleen and Colonel Neilson were alone, he abruptly asked,

"Kathleen, do you know who our guest is? Do you know whom Annorah has chosen?"

"Hugh O'Neal – a Catholic priest that was. What more?" returned she, not a little surprised at the indignant tone in which the question was asked.

"Enough more! He is the priest who cast that child into the flames! But for Annorah's sake, I would hunt him down like a wild beast. I cannot tell you the horror I feel in his presence."

"Why, Dermot!" exclaimed Kathleen, too much shocked to say more. Tears gathered in her eyes, and both were silent till she asked, "You surely will not betray it to Annorah. She is devoted to him."

“No, no," replied he, impatiently; "I have not the heart to make her despise him. He tyranizes over her now, with his jealous love – what would be his hate if he lost her devotion?"

Thus they buried the matter between them. O'Neal soon occupied a charming little cottage, on the opposite bank of the river, and as the business in which he had engaged called him, frequently, to a neighboring city, he had but little intercourse with Colonel Neilson; that little was restricted by a coldness for which Annorah vainly tried to account, till after occurrences explained the cause.

Eighteen months had scarcely elapsed before death crossed the threshold of the O'Neal cottage. The beautiful child, whose life was twined with the very heart-strings of its doting parents, lay cold and dead in the small, cool parlor that looked out upon the river. Every one mourned for Alice, but none grieved more than the loving Christine, who had never come without her apron full of gifts, and would have enticed the little favorite into all her play-nooks, if the tiny feet could have moved fast enough. It was impossible to behold Alice and not wonder at her angel-like beauty. The transparent delicacy of the complexion, without the rosy glow of childhood, the perfect features and the tranquil, soft light in her blue eyes – each called forth the admiration of those who caressed her. All the old ladies in the neighborhood protested the child would not live, though none were prepared for the sudden and untimely death that disfigured the lovely face, as if to reproach the worship with which it had been gazed upon.

She had attempted, unobserved, to peep into a steaming, boiling caldron, and, balancing upon tiptoe, grasped the hot, edges with both hands. The quick spring of pain drew the caldron with her to the floor, and the scalding contents streamed over face, neck and the plump bared arms and shoulders. The agony and the shock were too strong' for her delicate frame. She moaned, sank away, and died in a few hours. Kathleen was with the distracted mother; she carefully arrayed the beloved child in a snowy muslin robe, and laid her tenderly in the coffin. It was all done before the father, for whom a messenger was dispatched, arrived. He could not comprehend or believe the dreaded truth, till his eyes fell upon the motionless face of his only – his worshiped child. He stood deathly pale when he heard the nature of the accident.

"I am punished – I am punished at last," groaned he, gazing wildly at his wife. She knew nothing of the scene that now called up the most agonizing remorse. "Tell her – all I cannot," he entreated of Colonel Neilson, who endeavored to calm his agitation.

"No, she has enough to grieve for now. Be silent, Hugh," said he, in a low, but decided voice.

Hugh O'Neal bent his head upon his folded hands and leaned upon the coffin. Thus he remained in silence for many minutes. When he raised himself, a look of strong determination was in his face, as if he had made some unchangeable resolve. He motioned every one to leave the room. Even Annorah, he directed to be conveyed back to her own apartment. Left alone, he locked the door and turned again to gaze upon the dead child. All the old superstitions and reverence for the creed in which he had been educated, returned and took strong hold upon his mind. He reproached himself for having become linked with the heretics. He believed this affliction had fallen upon him, not only in retribution for his cruelty, but because of his abjuration of the Catholic faith, and the violation of his vows. He resolved to make a pilgrimage to his native home in Ireland, confess, and receive absolution. Annorah must be abandoned – sacrificed. But of this he would not think now; enough that Protestants had prepared his child for burial. He would return now to his old faith.

In a few hours he had removed all the fastenings from the child's shroud, lest it might receive pain, and carefully rearranged each article; placed a pair of tiny shoes upon its feet that they should not be bruised and bleeding while enduring the purifications of purgatory, and laid two long wax candles by her side, within the coffin. Four others he lit and placed at the head and foot of the little sleeper, after closing and darkening the windows of the apartment.

Amazement and concern were depicted upon the countenances of all who entered, after this revolution had taken place. They believed O'Neal had gone mad. Kathleen looked on, and shook her head sadly; she understood the end. She grieved now more for Annorah than the lost child. O'Neal was moody and obstinate in all his arrangements for the last ceremonies. He had searched in vain for a priest; there was not one within fifty miles, and miles were not easily or quickly traversed then. He resolved to officiate, himself. No Protestant should touch the coffin of his loved Alice. He alone read the prayers, he closed the face from view, he carried her out from the home that was made desolate. Unaided, he prepared the grave, and, alone, lowered the precious burden into its narrow place. Preserving a stern heart and tearless eye, he covered it with, the cold earth, laid the green sods upon the mound, and then knelt upon it to pray for the repose of her pure soul. Annorah did not see all this, for she lay almost unconscious in her own darkened room – a room she never left till carried forth by other hands. O'Neal continued silent and brooding for weeks after the death of Alice, until one day he announced to his invalid wife his solemn purpose to leave her, and go upon a pilgrimage, with the hope of relieving his mind of the intolerable remorse that preyed upon him. It was impossible to swerve him from his purpose. His wife's tears – the entreaties of her friends – all availed nothing. He tore himself away, though he knew it was the finishing death-stroke to Annorah; her life was bound up in his. Both knew they never should meet again upon earth – each doubted the eternal salvation of the other. Agonized at the thought of a separation through all eternity, Annorah clung to her husband with the strength of despair, till he forcibly tore himself from her convulsive grasp, and fled.

Long before he reached the sea-coast she was dead. The tidings came to him the day before he sailed. He consoled himself with the thought that she never knew the revolting details of the deed that had haunted him, but her loss plunged him into still deeper melancholy.

The long weeks and months of the voyage dragged heavily by. Each day he grew weaker under the intolerable weight of grief, remorse and self-reproach. He was but a shadow of his former self when he again trod the green sods of his native land; he trembled with weakness when he knelt at the feet of his old confessor; he died at last, breathing the name of his loved Annorah in entreaties to those who surrounded him, to say masses for her soul.

What a dark belief! Pitiable mortals, those who are shrouded under its frightful pall; who, after an early education in its superstitions, its bigotry and enticing eremonies, can never fully shake off its influence, however enlightened in after life. What infatuated parents, who, for the sake of a fashionable education, will risk the simple, pure belief of the young hearts entrusted to their guidance, by placing them within the fascinating reach of Catholic worship. What American mother can thus hazard a daughter, unless she wishes to bury her in a convent, or, what is equally deplorable, imprison and darken her soul in error.