They parted in a merry mood, most of the men going to comfortable homes. But poor Connor's resting-place was a poor lodging-house, where he shared a crazy garret with four other men; and in the joy of his heart, the poor fellow exhibited his handkerchief, with his hard-earned savings tied up in a wad in the middle, before he put it under his pillow and fell asleep.

When he awakened in the morning, he found his treasure gone; some villain, more contemptible than most bad men, had robbed him.

'At first Connor could not even believe it lost. He searched every corner of the room, shook his quilt and blankets, and begged those about him "to quit joking, and give it back."

"Is any man that bad that it's thaved from me?" he asked, in a breathless way. "Boys, is any man that bad?" And some one answered: "No doubt of it, Connor, it's sthole."

Then Connor put his head down on his hands and lifted up his voice and wept. It was one of those sights which men never forget. It seemed more than he could bear, to have Nora and his child "put," as he expressed it, "months away from him again."

But when he went to work that day, it seemed to all who saw him that he had picked up a new determination. His hands were never idle. His face seemed to say, "I'll have Nora with me

yet."

At noon he scratched out a letter, blotted and very strangely scrawled, telling Nora what had happened; and those who observed him noticed that he had no meat with his dinner. Indeed, from that moment he lived on bread, potatoes, and cold water, and worked as few men ever worked before. It grew to be the talk of the shop, and, now that sympathy was excited, every one wanted to help Connor. Jobs were thrown in his way, kind words and friendly wishes helped him mightily; but no power could make him share the food or drink of any other workman. It seemed a sort of charity to him.

Still, he was helped along. A present from Mr. Bawne at pay-day, set Nora, as he said, "a week nearer," and this and that and the other added to the little hoard. It grew faster than the first, and Connor's burden was not so heavy. At last, before he hoped it, he was once more able to say, "I'm going to bring them over," and to show his handkerchief, in which, as before, he tied

up his earnings; this time, however, only to his friends. Cautious among strangers, he hid the treasure, and kept his vest buttoned over it night and day until the tickets were bought and sent. Then every man, woman and child, capable of hearing or understanding, knew that Nora and her baby were coming; and so the days flew by, and brought at last a letter from his wife.

"She would start as he desired, and she was well and so was the boy, and might the Lord bring them safely to each other's arms, and bless them who had been so kind to him." That was the substance of the epistle which Connor proudly assured his fellowworkmen Nora wrote herself. She had lived at service as a girl, with a certain good old lady, who had given her the items of an education, which Connor told upon his fingers. "The radin', that's one, and the writin', that's three, and, moreover, knows all that a woman can." Then he looked up, with tears in his eyes, and asked,- Do you wondher the time seems long between me an' her, boys?"

she

So it was. Nora at the dawn of day - Nora at noon Nora at night—until the news came that the Stormy Petrel had come to port, and Connor, breathless and pale with excitement, flung his cap in the air and shouted.

It happened on a holiday afternoon, and half-a-dozen men were ready to go with Connor to the steamer and give his wife a greeting. Her little home was ready; Mr. Bawne's own servant had put it in order, and Connor took one peep at it before he started.

"She had n't the like of that in the old counthry," he said, "but she 'll know how to keep them tidy."

Then he led the way towards the dock where the steamer lay, and at a pace that made it hard for the rest to follow him. The spot was reached at last; a crowd of vehicles blockaded the street; a troop of emigrants came thronging up; fine cabin passengers were stepping into cabs, and drivers, porters, and all manner of employees were yelling and shouting in the usual manner. Nora would wait on board for her husband, he knew that.

The little group made their way into the vessel at last, and there, amid those who sat watching for coming friends, Connor searched for the two so dear to him; patiently at first, eagerly but patiently, but by-and-by growing anxious and excited.

"She would never go alone," he said; "she 'd be lost entirely; I bade her wait, but I do n't see her, boys; I think she's not in it."

"Why don't you see the captain?" asked one; and Connor jumped at the suggestion. In a few minutes he stood before, a portly, rubicund man, who nodded to him kindly.

"I am looking for my wife, yer honor," said Connor, "and I can't find her."

Perhaps she's gone ashore," said the captain.

"I bade her wait," said Connor.

Women don't always do as they are bid, you know," said the captain.

"Nora would," said Connor; -" but maybe she was left behind. Maybe she did n't come. I somehow think she did n't." At the name of Nora the captain started. In a moment he asked:

"That's her name, and the boy with her is Jamesy, yer honor," said Connor.

The captain looked at Connor's friends; they looked at the captain. Then he said huskily: "Sit down, my man; I've got something to tell you."

"She's left behind," said Connor.

"She sailed with us," said the captain.

"Where is she?" asked Connor.

The captain made no answer.

66

"My man," he said, we all have our trials; God sends them. Yes - Nora started with us."

Connor said nothing. He was looking at the captain, now, white to his lips.

"It's been a sickly season," said the captain; "we have had illness on board — the cholera. You know that."

"I did n't. I can't read; they kept it from me," said Connor. "We did n't want to frighten him," said one, in a half whisper. "You know how long we lay at quarantine?"

"The ship I came in did that," said Connor. "Did ye say Nora went ashore? Ought I to be looking for her, captain?"

66

"Many died, many children," went on the captain. When we were half way here your boy was taken sick."

"Jamesy," gasped Connor.

"His mother watched him night and day," said the captain,

"and we did all we could, but at last he died; only one of many. There were five buried that day. But it broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the water. "It's his father I think of," said she; "he 's longing to see poor Jamesy."

Connor groaned.

"Keep up if you can, my man," said the captain; "I wish any one else had it to tell rather than I. That night Nora was taken ill, also, very suddenly; she grew worse fast. In the morning she called me to her. 'Tell Connor I died thinking of him,' she said, ' and tell him to meet me.' And my man, God help you, she never said anything more in an hour she was gone."

Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to steady himself; looking at the captain with his eyes dry as two stones. Then he turned to his friends:

"I've got my death, boys," he said, and then dropped to the deck like a log.

They raised him and bore him away. In an hour he was at home on the little bed which had been made ready for Nora, weary with her long voyage. There at last, he opened his eyes. Old Mr. Bawne bent over him; he had been summoned by the news, and the room was full of Connor's fellow workmen.

'Better, Connor?" asked the old man.

"A dale," said Connor. "It's aisy now; I'll be with her soon. And look ye, masther, I've learnt one thing-God is good; He would n't let me bring Nora over to me, but he 's takin' me over to her and Jamesy over the river; do n't you see it, and her standin' on the other side to welcome me?"

And with these words Connor stretched out his arms. Perhaps he did see Nora - Heaven only knows - and so died. -Anonymous.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor-lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

-Lord Tennyson.

THE EMPTY NEST

A home in a quiet country place,

Under the shadow of branches wide;
And a fair young mother with thoughtful face,
Sewing a seam by the window side.

The sunshine stretches across the floor,
The bright motes dance in its golden way,

And in and out, at the open door,

The children run in their busy play.

Guiding her needle with careless skill,

Her fingers fashion the garment white;

But weaving a fabric daintier still,

Her swift thoughts follow the needle's flight.

Her heart lies hushed in her deep content,
Her lips are humming an old love lay;

And still, with its music softly blent,
She hears what the eager children say:

"We found it under the apple-tree,—
A poor little empty yellowbird's nest;
See, it is round as a cup could be,

And lined with down from the mother's breast.