llowed her was so full of
wistfulness that she felt that she would have stooped and, in asking
forgiveness, have kissed the white-bandaged brow, if it had not been for
the nun's silent presence.

It was not until late at night that she remembered and opened the little
packet. It contained a massive marriage ring, such as were used by the
fisher-folk on the Galway coast. She was troubled at seeing it. The
strong-clasped hands and golden heart were an emblem that vexed her. She
felt that while she kept it she could not be free from the promise she
had given, and that her farewell could not have been understood as a
final one. She determined to leave it at the Doctor's house as she
passed to-morrow, and wrote, to enclose with it, a letter, penitent,
humble, begging forgiveness for the wrong she had thoughtlessly done to
so good and loyal a friend. She did not care now if others read it; she
must confess her desertion and implore pardon. The letter was blotted
with tears as she folded it round the heavy ring.

But that ring of betrothal was never returned. In the morning, as
Colonel Eden and his sister drove for the last time into Cloon, they saw
groups of frieze-coated men and blue-cloaked women whispering together
with sad faces, and a shutter being closed over each little shop window.

And when they came to the Doctor's house they saw that the blinds were
all drawn down.

SONNET.

Our life is one long poem. In our youth
We rise and sing a noble epic song,
A trumpet note of sound both clear and strong,
With idyls now and then too sweet for truth.
A lyric of lament, it swells along
The tide of years, a protest 'gainst the wrong
Of life, an unavailing cry for ruth,
A wish to know the end--the end forsooth!
'Tis not on earth. The end which makes or mars
The song of life, we who sing seldom know.
That end is where, beyond the pale fair stars
Which have looked down so calmly on our woe,
Eternal music will set right the jars
Of all that sounds so harsh and sad below.

JULIA KAVANAGH.

THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF "IN SUNNY CLIMES," "LETTERS
FROM MAJORCA," ETC. ETC.

We were very sorry to leave Morlaix. The old town had gained upon our
affections. We had found the Hotel d'Europe very comfortable, and Mr.
and Mrs. Hellard kind and attentive beyond praise. The indiscretions of
that fatal night were more than eff