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"Nearly all the Irish farmers are," returns Miss Mansergh, reluctantly. "When I stay with Uncle Wilfrid in Westmeath, I see them all going to mass every Sunday morning. Of course"—kindly—"there are a few Protestants, but they are very few." "That? Oh, that was the bride, Mrs. Rodney," replies he. "She is lovely, if you like." "Yes, you, and every other man," says Mona, smiling, and raising her loving eyes to her husband..

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So the grudge, being well watered, grew and flourished, and at last, as I said, the old man made a will one night, in the presence of the gardener and his nephew, who witnessed it, leaving all he possessed—save the title and some outside property, which he did not possess—to his younger son. And, having made this will, he went to his bed, and in the cold night, all alone, he died there, and was found in the morning stiff and stark, with the gay spring sunshine pouring in upon him, while the birds sang without as though to mock death's power, and the flowers broke slowly into life. Soon an old woman, bent with age and crippled, came from the door and smiled as she saw the two persons coming. "No,"—slowly,—"I do not. If I did, I should not love you as—as I do." At the farthest end of the room, near a window, lying back in an arm-chair, lies Mona, sound asleep..