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I would not spend another such a night,

To her it is an awful moment. Never before has she stood face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the chain,—the breaking of the bowl. "Neither the sun nor death," says La Rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily;" and now "Death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now. His pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination; yet here he lies, smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with nothing further to anticipate but the last change of all.,

"It is too late," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone. "I have said so many things about you, that—that——",

"We all have regrets at times, dear boy, the very best of us," says the little doctor, blowing his nose: "who among us is faultless? And really the circumstances were very trying for you,—very—eh? Yes, of course one understands, you know; but death heals all divisions, and he is hurrying to his last account, poor lad, all too soon."

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"Are you one of the others?",

He travelled some distance, but saw nothing of his daughter. The sun was hot, and at length he came to a buffalo wallow in which some water was standing, and drank and sat down to rest. A little way off on the prairie he saw a herd of buffalo. As the man sat there by the wallow, trying to think what he might do to find his daughter, a magpie came up and alighted on the ground near him. The man spoke to it, saying, "Măm-ī-ăt´sī-kĭmĭ—Magpie—you are a beautiful bird; help me, for I am very unhappy. As you travel about over the prairie, look everywhere, and if you see my daughter say to her, 'Your father is waiting by the wallow.'",

Sleep, even when she does get to bed, refuses to settle upon Mona's eyelids. During the rest of the long hours that mark the darkness she lies wide awake, staring upon vacancy, and thinking ceaselessly until,

So he takes her hand, and together they lean over the brink and survey themselves in Nature's glass. Lightly their faces sway to and fro as the running water rushes across the pool,—sway, but do not part; they are always together, as though in anticipation of that happy time when their lives shall be one. It seems like a good omen; and Mona, in whose breast rests a little of the superstition that lies innate in every Irish heart, turns to her lover and looks at him.