TIME will wear away the edge of the keenest sorrow, if it does not obliterate it entirely. We remember the dead with tears and agonizing regrets at first, longing to commune with the spirit that we persuade ourselves still dwells with us. At last, wearied with the unanswered love, or thinking of the departed as farther removed – as having traveled too far into eternity for us to follow, we cease to mourn for the lost, and cling to earthly objects again.

Two years had lessened the bitterness of Kathleen's grief, but she was yet far from being a superabundantly mirthful girl, as at eighteen. There was an impress of her first trial plainly written in her saddened face and subdued manner, to those who had ever seen the animation of her earlier girlhood; and the touch of melancholy added to, rather than detracted from, her beauty.

Indifferent to gayety, she rarely accompanied her father in the excursions formerly so well suited to her vivacity; large assemblies had few attractions for her; only the social gatherings, of a few choice friends, drew her from the seclusion that had been most in unison with her feelings since the loss of one whom she had worshiped with a love near to idolatry. Those who sought her hand were coldly repulsed; she disdained protestations of love that came from lips less noble, less devoted than his, upon whom she had lavished the wealth of her heart. One after another strove to win her, and each went away chagrined at her haughtiness and immovable decision. They had flattered, wooed and knelt before her queenly coldness, without gaining so much as a smile in return for honeyed words.

Sometimes her father remonstrated, or her mother reproved her, while one other looked on with secret satisfaction. That other was Dermot Neilson, who had been a frequent and familiar guest at Mr. Synton's for more than a year. He had been repulsed in his turn, but to Kathleen's surprise he did not in the least take it to heart; he seemed to forget that he had ever expressed his admiration, and took no notice whatever of her neglect during his visits. At first she avoided him, but his cheerful presence in the family, and unobtrusive attentions to her, soon disarmed her; more than once she found herself attracted to the circle gathered about him, and listened with interest to his entertaining conversation. In spite of herself, she laughed, too, with the rest at his humorous moods.

True to the impulses of a kind nature, which eve prompts genuine politeness, he cared for her comfort in a way that had its charm, yet such as the presence of any lady would have demanded. Kathleen noticed it, and with the inconsistency of a woman used to admiration, was chagrined at the apparent withdrawal of his devotion, yet would have been indignant had he continued to manifest it. But her especial dislike for him arose from the abrupt and matter-of-fact manner in which his early addresses had been paid. The absence of flattery, entreaty and passionate admiration, in his attentions, represented him as cold and insincere to her; she felt annoyed, too, at the cool criticism he had from the first bestowed upon her faults, and, above all, his singular disregard of her indifference and marked displeasure was unpardonable.

Under other circumstances, Kathleen might have admired him. There was no fault to be found with his commanding height, and his face, if not handsome, was striking in its noble hearted expression. His complexion was relieved from feminine fairness by a ruddy tinge of sun-burn, except the upper part of his brow, from which was thrown back a profusion of light brown hair. Full, blue eyes, a nose that indicated strength of character, though not within the line of beauty, and a mouth, about which lurked a pleasant playfulness, altogether constituted a face, and manifested qualities that must have attracted Kathleen, but for her wounded vanity.

Dermot Neilson was no sighing, despairing lover; and thus; in his own opinion at least, he sacrificed neither pride nor dignity in his persevering determination to win Kathleen. On the contrary, he watched her with the satisfaction that a spider evinces when a fly alights upon his web, and he retires at a comfortable distance to keep an eye upon the struggles which are sure to entangle the victim more securely.

One evening, Dermot followed Kathleen to the garden, where she was strolling by herself. He found her seated in the arbor, in a melancholy mood, and took an unproffered seat beside her.

"Kathleen, why do you continue to grieve It will not bring Arvine back. You might as well be cheerful, for your own sake as for others," said he, with more philosophy than feeling.

She did not reply, but her cheeks crimsoned.

"I have told you before, Kathleen, that I love you," continued he, in a softened voice. "I only wish I might secure your happiness and cheerfulness now – your love I would hope for afterwards."

"Mr. Neilson, I have told you not to refer to that subject again. How many times shall I repeat, that I do not, and never will, love you? Have you no regard for what I say?" said she, measuring every word, and looking directly in his eyes, while her own flashed with earnestness.

"Certainly, the utmost respect; but you do not know yourself – you will love me," returned he, emphatically.

 "I won't! I hate you! Will that do?" she angrily exclaimed, rising from her seat.

"No, that will not do! I will seek none other than yourself, and shall wait till you do love me," said he, with undisturbed self-possession, and a playful smile lurking about his mouth.

Kathleen's eyes fairly shot the anger she felt at his cool pertinacity; she turned to go to the house, but stopped again and asked, with curling lip,

"Do you regard me as a child?"

"No, assuredly not," said he, rising and approaching her respectfully. "You are a noble girl, Kathleen, and I admire you all the more for the rare devotion with which you cherish the memory of one who is gone. Yet it cannot always be so, and I hope to win that love when it returns to things earthly. It is worth struggling for."

"It is useless to persist. I never can love you," replied she coldly, but with lessened anger, as they walked on. She did not perceive the smile that resolutely implied "you will." Still offended with his presumptuous avowal, she maintained silence till they reached the house.

"I will not detain you longer," said Mr. Neilson abruptly, "I go to Belfast to-morrow, and do not know when I may see you again. My adieu to your parents if you please." Before Kathleen could recover from the surprise of the announcement, he was gone.

"Well, at least I shall be relieved now!" said she to herself in a congratulatory tone as she went in and joined the family circle.

If she did feel a sense of relief at his departure, she soon began to miss his lively visits which, with their frequency and the cheerfulness they infused, had contributed more to her enjoyment than she was at all aware of. There was a fascination in his calm, determinate mode of making love that unconsciously interested Kathleen, notwithstanding her anger. As week after week passed away, she began to speculate upon his long absence; it was impossible not to be reminded of him at the time of his accustomed visits.

"Mother, I wish Dermot Neilson was here to spend the evening with us," exclaimed she one afternoon, impatiently throwing aside her employment. "He is very entertaining when he chooses to be."

"I thought thee disliked him," said her mother, in a tone of surprise.

"I do dislike him, for he is always parading my faults, and ends with insisting I shall love him. I will not be wooed in that way."

"Well, thee need not get angry about it, nor wish him here, for thee would treat him ill if he came. He speaks well if he chides thy faults, Kathleen. Thee would do wisely to trust thy heart with him."

"No, indeed! He is too conceited in presuming and insisting that I shall love him. Not I, indeed!" replied she, tossing her head and compressing her lips scornfully. She heartily wished for his presence now, that she might renew the spiteful tête à tête of the garden.

She was not an ill-tempered girl, but had been a little spoiled by the adulation received in her girlhood, and the strange mode of Mr. Neilson's procedure vexed her thoroughly, while at the same time it had a novel flattery that secretly pleased her, even if she would not acknowledge it to herself.

"Kathleen, what say you to a trip to Lough Erne with me to-morrow " said her father cheerfully as he came in from his weekly round among the tenantry.

"Go, Kathleen, thee will find the Lough very beautiful, and thee will be better for the journey," added her mother; but Kathleen needed no persuasion and the matter was soon decided.

Early on the following morning, they were equipped for their three days' excursion. Kathleen recovered something of her old cheerfulness, as, mounted upon her neglected pony, she sallied out in the pure morning air. She gaily galloped along at her father's side; sometimes turned from the paved roads into green lanes and by-ways, or, leaping the hedges and walls, skimmed over the green meadows; and sometimes she slowly followed the windings of a rivulet, or forded a stream, as her fancy happened to lead. She was wondrously cheerful that day. Her father, who had grown irritable and gloomy since her bereavement, caught her spirit and responded joyfully to her happy mood.

"Let us go for Minnie Sullivan. Wouldn't it be charming for her to ride with us to Lough Erne?" almost laughed Kathleen, as she turned with dilated eyes, and face glowing with exercise, to her father.

"We shall not even reach Clogher to night if we ramble so much out of our way," expostulated Mr. Synton.

"Gratify me this once – she will not detain us long, and we will ride all the faster," urged Kathleen.

"Very well, it shall be as you choose,” and accordingly their horses' heads were turned into a road at right angles with the one they had pursued. An hour's ride brought them to Minnie's house; a neat, rural cottage that seemed the nestling-place of peace. Minnie herself appeared in the doorway, then come forward from the vine-covered portico and glided across the greensward to greet her gladly recognized friend. The errand was speedily made known. Minnie looked up from under her long lashes with a mock solemnity and asked,

 "Am I to go on foot? I've no frisky pony like yours, nor a good fairy to serve me up a coach and six."

"Ride behind father. You have a pillion, I know," replied Kathleen, smilingly, and admiring her lovely friend as she stood there hesitatingly. Minnie's eyes were of the soul-full kind – deep and tender; one could not look into them once and forget them; she had a way too of bending her head slightly and looking from under her finely lined eye-brows, that was irresistible. Her complexion was beautifully delicate and transparent, and her hair almost flaxen, but she was saved from being a beauty by an unfortunate, upward curve-of the nose, not unpleasantly perceptible, however, except in profile.

"Come, Minnie, make haste. We have no time to lose. I will not dismount either, or your ladyship will take more time to get ready."

Without further words, Minnie hastened away to make preparations. Meanwhile her mother, a stately looking woman, came out to offer civilities and make inquiries, while Mr. Synton stood at the gate with the bridle over his arm.

Minnie appeared in due time, equipped becomingly in a short, green, riding dress, hat and plumes. Mr. Synton leaped into the saddle, stooped low, threw one arm round Minnie's waist and, by an adroit movement, swung her safely and firmly behind him. With hasty adieus they were off again, the dresses fluttering and plumes waving as they rode rapidly away.

A night spent at Clogher, and the following sunrise found them on their way to Lough Erne. The smooth highways, for which Ireland, as well as England, is noted, led between meadows or cultivated fields, through towns and hamlets, past the ruins of old castles, or under the walls of a convent; but the fancies of the little party led them aside from the beaten track for the sake of climbing the occasional hills in the less frequented roads. From these ranges of hills, they looked down upon an apparently level stretch of country dotted here and there with villages, traced the bright windings of a stream, and speculated upon the uses of the mysterious round towers, one of which loomed up in the distance with its hidden secrets still safe from the generations that now surrounded it. When the travelers descended the hills, the plain assumed an undulating surface that successively revealed portions of the scenery which had been mapped out in a beautiful whole from the loftier heights. As they rode along, Mr. Synton entertained his young companions with old Irish legends associated with places they passed, and pointed out the raths, or moats, in which the fairies were said to live. These fairies the peasant believes to be fallen angels, whose punishment is limited to wanderings upon the earth. If a cloud of dust sweeps along the road, he will take off his hat and say, "God speed ye, gintlemen," believing they journey from place to place in their uncertain vehicles.

"Who knows but we shall see the famous Leprechaun on one of the islands in the Lough!" said Mr. Synton, smiling. "They say he makes it his home there, but as Shane O'Neilly insists he's sich a bit of an ould man that it's no wonder he niver could clap eyes on him.' He solemnly assured me that his grandfather saw the little brogue-maker there, and that he wore a 'cocked hat on his head an' a dudeen in his mouth, smokin' away; an' a little bit ov an apron on him, an' a pair o' silver buckles in his shoes, that a'most covered his feet, they war so big, an' he workin' away as hard as iver he could, heelin' little pair o' pumps.' You must listen for the tick-tack of his wee hammer, Minnie," added Mr. Synton, laughing heartily.

Amusing themselves thus, the time went rapidly, and each made an exclamation of surprise as they unexpectedly came in sight of Lough Erne. Their surprise and pleasure were doubled, when on arriving, they found Dermot Neilson there, just preparing for aboat excursion.

"I thought you were at Belfast," exclaimed Kathleen, with increased color, as she received a cold recognition from her repulsed friend.

"I finished my business and found occasion to come here," replied he, adding a few complimentary inquiries.

"So he passed Armagh without visiting us," thought Kathleen, not a little piqued at the circumstance. She preserved a proud, distant demeanor towards him, and would have rejected his gallant offer of assistance in the day's excursion, but for her father's ready acceptance.

"He accompanies us for the sake of Minnie," thought she again, as she watched with increasing depression of spirits the glances of admiration cast upon her lovely friend. She withdrew herself more to her father's companionship, which he attributed to her dislike for Mr. Neilson, while the simple-hearted Minnie wondered where her good spirits had flown.

All day they rambled along the wild, rocky shores of Lough Erne, or skimnmed over the waters in a light skiff, touching at the wooded islands and looking in upon their famed retreats, listening in spite of their unbelief for the ticktack of the little Leprechaun's hammer. Most of the many islets that gemmed the broad Lough had their legends or holy resorts, whither the superstitious peasantry and misled Catholics made frequent pilgrimages. Before nightfall, the boat was turned towards Enniskillen, a town built upon the banks of the narrow channel that divides Lough Erne into two sheets of water. Minnie dipped her hand into the waves that rippled before the prow of the boat and chatted gayly with Dermot Neilson. Kathleen sat aloof, looking quietly at the shores as they passed along, sad and scarcely understanding why she should care for the marked slight shown her, which, after all, was the realization of her often expressed wish that Mr. Neilson "would leave her to herself." But now that a rival intervened, she began to discover him to be an attractive, agreeable and graceful suitor. She was not sorry when they reached Enniskillen and bade good night to her inconstant lover.

The journey home, the following day, found Kathleen in no better mood. She rode beside her father; Minnie's pillion had been transferred to Mr. Neilson's horse, and she rode merrily behind him, with one arm clinging round him for support. She was safely escorted to her home, the remainder of the party continuing their way to Armagh.

"Well, Kathleen, did thee think Lough Erne as fair as I said thee would find it?" smilingly inquired her mother as she came in wearied with her ride.

"Yes, very pleasant," remarked she indifferently and with none of the enthusiasm she usually expressed after such an excursion.

"Kathleen's trip was spoiled by the company of a disagreeable friend," suggested her father; but for some reason she was the more out of humor at the remark.

"What a fool I have been to loose him!" said she honestly to herself, when she had retired to the quiet of her own room.

AN unclouded sun shone cheerfully upon hill and heath, upon flowing streams, upon the furze flowers and fairy-bells, the green, velvety grass, and the rustling trees of Armagh. Nature, with one of her genial lessons, gave back the golden rays from the bosom of the stream, the flowers opened and reflected the light from their dewy petals, the abundant foliage of the trees glistened and fluttered gladly, as if eager to speak thanks to the warm, bright rays that kissed them. The sunshine fell pleasantly upon the trees that were grouped about Mr. Synton's dwelling, casting cool shades upon the lawn, and dancing shadows upon the white walls, and streamed in a little way at the open door. Sunshine and shadow were without – shadow and sunshine within.

Unusual activity pervaded the household that morning. Servants hastened hither and thither, chattering significantly; doors opened and shut with noisy haste after them; the various apartments wore a look of studied arrangement; even the ancient, lazy puss was stirred out of her morning nap, and went mewing about the house as if wondering what all the stir meant. A glance into Kathleen's own room, just back of the parlor, betrayed it all. A high, tent-bedstead, shrouded in snow-white drapery, looped back far enough to display the quaintly-carved posts, stood in the centre of the room. Upon it lay a carefully assorted wardrobe, and near by were grouped Mrs. Synton, Kathleen, and Minnie Sullivan. Kathleen sat upon a low chair, and Minnie stood behind her nervously occupied in frizzing and powdering her hair after the most approved method. The placidity of the Quaker mother was for once overcome. One moment she stood with meekly folded hands before her daughter, watching the progress of her toilette, and the next came nearer to adjust something that did not quite please her.

"Minnie, thee will get it too wide," suggested she, as Minnie put the finishing strokes upon the enormous frizzed puffs that stood out upon each side of Kathleen's fair, open brow.

"Oh no! they certainly are not as wide as my own," replied she, glancing in the mirror opposite her.  Kathleen looked in the glass for herself, and turned away quite satisfied.

The bridal dress was quickly donned. Hoops had given place to long, flowing robes, not unlike the fashion of our own day. The silk bodice, sharp and laced across the front, lay open at the throat, where it expanded into a wide, standing collar that enclosed an immense lace frill. Her feet were encased in high-heeled silk shoes; the great, round hat, that completed her attire, was ornamented with bows of remarkable size and large bunches of white flowers. Minnie's costume was finished with a similar, high crowned, circular hat.

While the last, trembling arrangements of the bridal party are being made, we will seek the shadow that came in with the sunshine. In a darkened chamber Mr. Synton lay ill, partly from grief at Kathleen's intended marriage. Her presence had become necessary to him; and aside from that, he had never looked upon Dermot Neilson with the wish or expectation of receiving him as the husband of his idolized daughter.

Kathleen had really become warmly attached to her determined lover, and, when her willingness to share her life with his was made known to her father, he was stunned with surprise. "I thought you detested him, Kathleen. You are very singular. No; I shall not give my consent. You can do better than that. I have no more to say upon the matter."

Kathleen's and her mother's entreaties were of no avail; he had but one, unchangeable reply. "Mother, shall I yield to his wishes? How can I obey him and endure again that suffering which he imposed upon me once?" asked Kathleen, her face, manner and voice expressing her contending emotions.

"My daughter," mildly and sweetly returned her mother, "he does not forbid thy marriage. My blessing, at least, will follow thee."

In a measure consoled, Kathleen obeyed the dictates of her heart, and the preparations for a quiet, unostentatious wedding went on.

This was the shadow that darkened the bridal morning.

Dermot Neilson, at rest after his persevering success, waited with dignified composure to receive and lead away the prize which he had so faithfully striven to win. His face lost 'none of its attractiveness in the surroundings of his profusely powdered hair, so arranged as to add to his height. In the eyes of later generations, the addition of a hat would have been an unnecessary incumbrance, yet the wide-brimmed one, jauntily turned up at the sides, which he held in his hand, promised ample protection to his powdered locks. Broad ruffles, long waistcoat, high-collared, long-bodied coat, the rounded flaps falling to the bend of the knee ; fine ruffles at the wrist; short-clothes and silk stockings; square, high-heeled shoes with massive buckles, made up the costume; not an unbecoming one to his finely proportioned form and commanding height.

He paced back and forth in wise meditation till the door of Kathleen's apartment opened. Mrs. Synton led Kathleen forward, placed her hand in Dermot's, and fervently blessed them in a trembling voice; they then went together to the chamber where her father lay, enfeebled by illness, gloomy and depressed.

"Father, I have come for your blessing," said Kathleen, approaching the bedside. He looked reproachfully at her, sighed deeply and replied in a firm voice,

"I will neither bless you nor curse you!"

Kathleen burst into tears.

"I would not go from you thus, father, but I obeyed you once; you know with what a long, bitter struggle. I have not courage to suffer so again. You may yet bestow your blessing," said she, slowly moving away. He did not look after her, but turned his face to the wall and wept.

An hour afterwards, the bridal party stood in the midst of assembled friends, before the altar of the Church of the Seceders, and a simple, solemn rite made the subdued, pale Kathleen, the wife of Dermot Neilson.

A year afterwards her father was sleeping in the grave.