ference of the first admeasurement is marked upon
a ribbon, after which she repeats the charm that is to
remove the headache, and measures the cranium again, in
order to show, by a comparison of the two ribbons,
that the sutures have been closed, the charm successful,
and the headache immediately removed. It is
impossible to say how the discrepancy in the
measurement is brought about; but be that as it may,
the writer of this has frequently seen the operation
performed in such a way as to defy the most
scrutinizing eye to detect any appearance of imposture,
and he is convinced that in the majority of cases there
is not the slightest imposture intended. The operator
is in truth a dupe to a strong and delusive
enthusiasm."

This melancholy picture was too much for the tenderness of the mother;
she sat down beside the bed, rested her face on her open hand, and wept
in subdued but bitter grief. At this moment his father, who probably
suspected the cause of her absence, came in and perceived her distress.

"Vara," said he, in Irish also, "is my darlin' son asleep?"

She looked up, with streaming eyes, as he spoke, and replied to him in a
manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the boy, and
the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered--that
in point of fact no heart--certainly no Irish heart--could withstand
it. There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity,
and beauty--named in Irish "_Tha ma mackulla's na foscal me,_"---or
in English, "I am asleep, and don't waken me." The position of the boy
caused the recollection of the old melody to flash into the mother's
heart,--she simply pointed to him as the words streamed in a low
melodious murmur, but one full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips.
The old sacred association--for it was one which she had sung for him
a thousand times,--until warned to desist by his tears--deepened the
tenderness of her heart, and she said with difficulty, whilst she
involuntarily held over the candle to gratify the father's heart by a
sight of him. "I was keepin' him before my eye," she said; "God knows
but it may be the last night we'll ever see him undher our own roof!
Dominick, achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my heart."

"Then how can I, Vara?" he replied. "Wasn't he my right hand in
everything? When was he from me, ever since he took a man's work upon
h