and, as these were all to his advantage, we need
scarcely say that many an entertainment of this kind she was called
upon to furnish to her whose melancholy enjoyment was now only the
remembrance of him, and what he had once been to her.

"I would have been in a convent long before now, Biddy," said she, a few
days before Flanagan's trial, "but I cannot leave my father and mother,
because I know they could not live without me. My brother John has
declined Maynooth lest I should feel melancholy for want of some
person to amuse me and to cheer me; and now I feel that it would be
an ungrateful return I should make if I entered a convent and left
my parents without a daughter whom they love so well, and my brother
without a sister on whom he doats."

"Well, Miss," replied Biddy, "don't be cast down; for my part I'd always
hope for the best. Who knows, Miss, but a betther lave may be turned
up for you yet? I'd hould a naggin' that God nivir intinded an innocent
creature like you to spind the rest of your life in sadness and sorrow,
as you're doin'. Always hope for the best."

"Ah, Biddy," she replied, "you don't know what you speak of. His
sentence is one that can never be changed; and as for hoping for the
best how can I do that, Biddy, when I know that I have no 'best' to hope
for. He was my best in this world; but he is gone. Now go in, Biddy, and
leave me to myself for a little. You know how I love to be alone."

"May God in heaven pity you, Miss Oona," exclaimed the poor girl, whilst
the tears gushed from her eyes, "as I do this day! Oh, keep up your
heart, Miss, darlin'! for where there's life there's hope."

Little did she then dream, however, that hope would so soon restored to
her heart, or that the revolution of another year should see her waiting
with trembling delight for the fulness of her happiness.

On the evening previous to Bartle Flanagan's execution, she was pouring
out tea for her father and mother, as was usual, when her brother
John came home on his return from the assizes. Although the smile of
affection with which she always received him lit up her dark glossy
eyes, yet he observed that she appeared unusually depressed, and much
more pale than she had been for some time past.

"Una, are you unwell, dear?" he asked, as she handed him a cup of tea.

She looked at him with a kind of affectionate reproof in her eyes, as if
she wondered that he should be ignorant of the sorrow which preyed upon
he