in the parish, especially the poor and
destitute. The fact is, she was her father's favorite daughter, and he
could deny her nothing. The admirable girl was conscious of this, but
instead of availing herself of his affection for her in a way that
many--nay, we may say, most--would have done, for purposes of dress or
vanity, she became an interceding angel for the poor and destitute; and
closely as Murray loved money, yet it is due to him to say, that, on
these occasions, she was generally successful. Indeed, he was so far
from being insensible to his daughter's noble virtues, that he felt
pride in reflecting that she possessed them, and gave aid ten times
from that feeling for once that he did from a more exalted one. Such
was Margaret Murray, and such, we are happy to say--for we know it--are
thousands of the peasant girls of our country.

It was not to be wondered at, then, that in addition to the reluctance
which a heart naturally affectionate, like Art's, should feel on leaving
his relations for the first time, he should experience much secret
sorrow at being deprived of the society of this sweet and winning girl.

Matters now, however, were soon arranged, and the time, nay, the very
day for their departure was appointed. Art, though deeply smitten with
the charms of Margaret Murray, had never yet ventured to breathe to her
a syllable of love, being deterred naturally enough by the distance in
point of wealth which existed between the families. Not that this alone,
perhaps, would have prevented him from declaring his affection for her;
but, young as he was, he had not been left unimpressed by his father's
hereditary sense of the decent pride, strict honesty, and independent
spirit, which should always mark the conduct and feelings of any one
descended from the great Fermanagh Maguires. He might, therefore,
probably have spoken, but that his pride dreaded a repulse, and that he
could not bear to contemplate. This, joined to the natural diffidence of
youth, sufficiently accounts for his silence.

There lived, at the period of which we write, which is not a thousand
years ago, at a place called "the Corner House," a celebrated carpenter
named Jack M'Carroll. He was unquestionably a first-rate mechanic, kept
a large establishment, and had ample and extensive business. To him had
Art and Frank been apprenticed, and, indeed, a better selection could
not have been made, for Jack was not only a good workman himself, but an