think so.'

'And would you, now? And will you really think of ould Ireland when
you 're away? Hurroo! by the mortial, there's no place like it for fun,
divilment, and divarsion. But, musha, musha! I'm forgettin', and it's
gettin' dark. May I go with you to the packet?'

'To be sure, my poor boy; and I believe we have not many minutes to
spare.'

I despatched Joe for a car while I threw a last look around my room. Sad
things, these last looks, whether bestowed on the living or the dead,
the lifelike or the inanimate! There is a feeling that resembles death
in the last glance we are ever to bestow on a loved object. The girl
you have treasured in your secret heart, as she passes by on her
wedding-day, it may be happy and blissful, lifts up her laughing eyes,
the symbol of her own light heart, and leaves in that look darkness and
desolation to you for ever. The boy your father-spirit has clung
to, like the very light of your existence, waves his hand from the
quarterdeck, as the gigantic ship bends over to the breeze; the wind
is playing through the locks your hand so oftentimes has smoothed;
the tears have dimmed his eyes, for, mark t he moves his fingers over
them--and this is a last look. My sorrow had no touch of these. My eye
ranged over the humble furniture of my little chamber, while memories
of the past came crowding on me--hopes that I had lived to see blighted,
daydreams dissipated, heartfelt wishes thwarted and scattered. I stood
thus for some minutes, when Joe again joined me.

Poor fellow! his wayward and capricious flights, now grave, now gay,
were but the mockery of that sympathy my heart required. Still did he
heal the sadness of the moment. We need the voice, the look, the accent
of affection when we are leaving the spot where we have once been happy.
It will not do to part from the objects that have made our home, without
the connecting link of human friendship. The hearth, the roof-tree,
the mountain, and the rivulet are not so eloquent as the once syllabled
'Good-bye,' come it from ever so humble a voice.

[Illustration: 3-055]

The bustle and excitement of the scene beside the packet seemed to
afford Joe the most lively gratification; and, like the genius of
confusion, he was to be seen flitting from place to place, assisting
one, impeding another, while snatches of his wild songs broke from him
every moment. I had but time to press his hand, when he was hurried
ashore amongst the crowd; and the