clasped,
deep in her own sad thoughts, when she heard a footstep close by. It was
only Andy, who, with a piece of ragged crape fastened round his arm, was
slowly tottering towards her. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild
and excited, as he continued to mutter and reply to himself,----

"A Dalton; one of the ould stock, and maybe the last of them, too."

"And what is it, Andy?----tell me, what is it?" said she, kindly.

"There's no wake,--there is n't as much as a tenant's child would have!"

"We are almost friendless here, Andy. It is not our own country."

"Ain't they Christians, though? Could n't they keep the corpse company?
Is it four candles and a deal coffin ought to be at a Dalton's burial?"

"And we are poor also," said she, meekly.

"And has n't the poorest respect for the dead?" said he, sternly.
"Wouldn't they sell the cow, or the last pig, out of honor to him
that's gone to glory? I 'll not stay longer in the place; I 'll have my
discharge; I 'll go back to Ireland."

"Poor fellow," said Nelly, taking his hand kindly, and seating him
beside her. "You loved him so! and he loved you, Andy. He loved to
hear you sing your old songs, and tell over the names of his favorite
hounds."

"Bessy and Countess were the sweetest among them," said the old man,
wandering away to old memories of the past, "but Nora was truer than
either." And so he fell into a low mumbling to himself, endeavoring,
as it seemed, to recall the forgotten line of some hunting chant, while
Nelly returned to the house to take her last farewell ere the coffin lid
was closed.

CHAPTER XXII. A LAST ADIEU

The pleasure-seekers of Baden were not likely to be diverted from their
pursuits by such humble calamities as Nelly Dalton's, and the gay world
went on its gay road as merrily as though death or ruin could have no
concern for them. Already the happy groups were gathering before the
Cur-saal. The sounds of music filled the air. Wealth was displaying its
gorgeous attractions, beauty her fascinations, and wit its brilliancy;
and none had a thought for that sad episode which a few hours had half
obliterated from every mind. Under a spreading chestnut-tree, and around
a table sumptuously spread for breakfast, a large party was assembled,
discussing the news of the morning and the plans of pleasure for the
day. Some had but thoughts for the play-table, and could attune their
ears to no other sounds than the clink of the gold and the