pes which
futurity held out to them. As the heart, we repeat, of such a parent
goes back to brood over the beloved memory of the early lost, so do
our recollections go back, with mingled love and sorrow, to the tender
associations of spring, which may, indeed, be said to perish and pass
away in its youth.

These reflections have been occasioned, first, by the fact that its
memory and associations are inexpressibly dear to ourselves; and,
secondly, because it is toward the close of this brief but beautiful
period of the year that our chronicles date their commencement.

One evening, in the last week of April, a coach called the "Fly" stopped
to change horses at a small village in a certain part of Ireland, which,
for the present, shall be nameless. The sun had just sunk behind the
western hills; but those mild gleams which characterize his setting at
the close of April, had communicated to the clouds that peculiarly soft
and golden tint, on which the eye loves to rest, but from which its
light was now gradually fading. When fresh horses had been put to, a
stranger, who had previously seen two large trunks secured on the
top, in a few minutes took his place beside the guard, and the coach
proceeded.

"Guard," he inquired, after they had gone a couple of miles from the
village, "I am quite ignorant of the age of the moon. When shall we have
moonlight?"

"Not till it's far in the night, sir."

"The coach passes through the town of Ballytrain, does it not?"

"It does, sir."

"At what hour do we arrive there?"

"About half-past three in the morning sir."

The stranger made no reply, but cast his eyes over the aspect of the
surrounding country.

The night was calm, warm, and balmy. In the west, where the sun had
gone down, there could still be noticed the faint traces of that subdued
splendor with which he sets in spring. The stars were up, and the whole
character of the sky and atmosphere was full of warmth, and softness,
and hope. As the eye stretched across a country that seemed to be rich
and well cultivated, it felt that dream-like charm of dim romance, which
visible darkness throws over the face of nature, and which invests
her groves, her lordly mansions, her rich campaigns, and her white
farm-houses, with a beauty that resembles the imagery of some delicious
dream, more than the realities of natural scenery.

On passing along, they could observe the careless-looking farmer driving
home his cows to be mil