hich
he stood to examine the grave with greater accuracy.

There was, in fact, no grave visible. The little mound, under which lay
what was once such a touching image of innocence, beauty, and feeling,
had sunk down to the level of the earth about it. He regretted this,
inasmuch as it took away, he thought, part of her individuality. Still
he knew it was the spot wherein she had been buried, and with much of
that vivid feeling, and strong figurative language, inseparable from the
habits of thought and language of the old Irish families, he delivered
the mother's message to the inanimate dust of her once beautiful and
heart-loved child. He spoke in a broken voice, for even the mention of
her name aloud, over the clay that contained her, struck with a fresh
burst of sorrow upon his heart.

"Alley," he exclaimed in Irish, "Alley, _nhien machree_, your father
that loved you more nor he loved any other human crathur, brings a
message to you from the mother of your heart, avourneen! She bid me call
to see the spot where you're lyin', my buried flower, an' to tell you
that we're not now, thanks be to God, as we wor whin you lived wid us.
We are well to do now, _acushla oge machree_, an' not in hunger, an'
sickness, an' misery, as we wor whin you suffered them all! You will
love to hear this, pulse of our hearts, an' to know that, through all we
suffered--an' bittherly we did suffer since you departed--we never let
you out of our memory. No, _asthore villish_, we thought of you, an'
cried afther our poor dead flower, many an' many's the time. An' she bid
me tell you, darlin' of my heart, that we feel: nothin' now so much as
that you are not wid us to share our comfort an' our happiness. Oh, what
wouldn't the mother give to have you back wid her; but it can't be--an'
what wouldn't I give to have you before my eyes agin, in health an'
in life--but it can't be. The lovin' mother sent this message to you,
Alley. Take it from her; she bid me tell you that we are well an' happy;
our name is pure, and, like yourself, widout spot or stain. Won't you
pray for us before God, an' get him an' his blessed Mother to look on
us wid favor an' compassion? Farewell, Alley asthore! May you slelp in
peace, an' rest on the breast of your great Father in Heaven, until we
all meet in happiness together. It's your father that's spakin' to you,
our lost flower; an' the hand that often smoothed your goolden head is
now upon your grave."

He wiped his