d sat on the top of the stone wall, where he had listened
to the first kind words he ever remembered to have heard addressed to
him. I trust no little boy or girl who reads this will think the worse
of him, when I tell them that his breast began to heave, and the
tears gushed to his eyes.

"I wouldn't be 'thieving Pat' again," he said, doubling his fist, "no,
not for--not for--" At this moment his eye rested on the handsome new
edifice at Woodlawn; and he added with an impressive gesture, "no, not
for the Squire's new house. I'd rather starve again and have mammy
push me down stairs or anything rather than go sneaking round hiding
behind the walls, and feeling so ashamed to look any body in the face.
No, no, I'll stick to the new Patrick, as Mrs. Taylor tells about,
let what will come, I'll never lie to Bertie, and go back to my old
ways."

He felt stronger and better after this resolve, and walked on rapidly
until he reached the tree into which he had climbed to watch for
Bertie. The sight of his old home just beyond, had excited him a good
deal; and he laughed at the recollections of his fear that the Squire
had sent Joe Allen to take him to jail.

Then he stepped up to the door and looked within. All seemed
deserted. A few half-burnt brands had broken and fallen apart on the
wide, old-fashioned hearth, the low wooden chair usually occupied by
his father was vacant; a piece of crust, mouldy with age, lay on the
table, and a broken pipe beside it.

Pat stood a moment gazing around, his face growing every moment more
sad, then suddenly ran up the old creaking stairs to his own chamber.

"She's done it. I knew she would," he exclaimed, angrily. "She always
did everything she could to spite me!"

He picked from the dirty floor two or three tail feathers of a tiny
yellow bird which he had saved from the jaws of a cat, though not
until it had received it's death wound; and which after a fashion of
his own he had stuffed.

This, almost his only treasure, his drunken step-mother had
deliberately pulled to pieces, scattering the feathers on the floor.

One tiny feather he put into his pocket as a memorial of the life
which had forever passed, and then hurried away from scenes which
recalled such bitter memories.

"Dad is gone," he exclaimed aloud, walking a short distance from the
house, then turning back for another last gaze; "and perhaps I shall
never see him again."

CHAPTER VIII.

LETTER FROM PAT.