an before his spiritual superior, who became much attached
to him, and availed himself of the earliest opportunity of rewarding his
unobtrusive piety and benevolence.

No sooner was his ordination completed, than the long suppressed
yearnings after his home and kindred came upon his spirit with a power
that could not be restrained. He took leave of his friends with a
beating heart, and set out on a delightful summer morning to revisit all
that had been, notwithstanding his long absence and severe trials,
so strongly wrought into his memory and affections. Our readers may,
therefore, suppose him on his journey home, and permit, themselves to be
led in imagination to the house of his former friend, Lanigan, where we
must lay the scene for the present.

Lanigan's residence has the same comfortable and warm appearance which
always distinguishes the habitation of the independent and virtuous man.
What, however, can the stir, and bustle, and agitation which prevail
in it mean? The daughters run out to a little mound, a natural terrace,
beside the house, and look anxiously towards the road; then return, and
almost immediately appear again, with the same intense anxiety to catch
a glimpse of some one whom they expect. They look keenly; but why is it
that their disappointment appears to be attended with such dismay?
They go into their father's house once more, wringing their hands, and
betraying all the symptoms of affliction. Here is their mother, too,
coming to peer into the distance, she is rocking with that motion
peculiar to Irishwomen when suffering distress. She places her open hand
upon her brows that she may collect her sight to a particular spot; she
is blinded by her tears; breaks out into a low wail, and returns with
something like the darkness of despair on her countenance. She goes into
the house, passes through the kitchen, and enters into a bed-room; seats
herself on a chair beside the bed, and renews her low but' bitter wail
of sorrow. Her husband is lying in that state which the peasantry know
usually precedes the agonies of death.

"For the sake of the livin' God," said he, on seeing her, "is there any
sign o' them?"

"Not yet, a _suillish_; (* My light) but they will soon--they must soon,
asthore, be here, an' thin your mind will be asy."

"Oh, Alley, Alley, if you could know what I suffer for 'fraid I'd die
widout the priest you'd pity me!"

"I do pity you, asthore: but don't be cast down, for I have m