endurance of grievous trial. Out of her blue eyes there shone the light of self-forgetfulness and wide love for others, and wherever there was sorrow or sickness or trouble of any kind, there was Clare Martyn to be found.

Margaret Drew had changed least of any. She was a little less active, but none the less kindly interested in all that concerned her friends, young and old, rich and poor. Griefs and joys were poured into her sympathetic ear as frequently as before, and new generations of village children sought her caresses and her sweetmeats just as their predecessors had done.

Roger was not forgotten. He still lived in the hearts of those who had known him, and more than one had sought in vain to make Clare the mistress of his home. She turned away from all, keeping his memory and his love sacred to herself.

Five years had gone by since Harry had watched the last sod fall on his friend's grave. Now he came slowly up the hill to visit it once more. He had spent the afternoon quietly with his father, and had set out under the rising moon to see those other dear friends of whom he had thought so often when far away. Lights shone from Margaret's windows, but he must first pay his solemn duty to the dead. The rays of the moon guided him to the high marble cross, and there he saw Clare standing, almost without surprise.

Their hands clasped, and few words were spoken. One glance in her eyes dashed his hopes to the very earth. They walked down the hill to the cottage, and there in the full lamp light he saw how beautiful she had grown. Under Mrs. Martyn's cheery influence fresh hope dawned, as Clare brightened and hardly tried to conceal her pleasure in his return.

Nevertheless, that grave stood between them, and climbing the hill once more, he paused beside it and thought within himself that, if Roger could know all, he would surely set matters right for them.

When he reached Margaret's house, she kissed him and lavished upon him many endearing words. She listened to him as he told her how he had met Clare, and said:

"Keep a good heart, dear boy. All will be well. I feel sure of it. Indeed I know, for I think Clare loves you, and there is even yet one last word from Roger. The dear lad gave me a letter the night before he died. It was a painful effort

for him to write, but he loved you, Harry, and he said he would rest happier when he knew Clare and you were happy. The dear, noble fellow!"

Clare has read the faint, laboured lines of love from that true heart now at rest. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and Margaret weeps in sympathy, too. She looks towards the old ruin on the hill, and the white cross beside it, with a glance of love and thankfulness, and a prayer for the kind, thoughtful soul that even when all things were passing away from him, forgot not what the future might hold for those he was to leave behind.

Their future would indeed have been lonely and cheerless but for the trust reposed in Margaret Drew when he confided his last missive to her hands.

M. C. KEOGH.

A THRUSH'S SONG

Now the Winter is over and Summer is near,

Lo the tender pink plumes on the larch boughs appear,
Whilst the pale modest primrose perfumes each green lane
And the blithe bonny cuckoo has come back again.

No! the king on his throne is not richer than I,

With my queen and my nest in the golden furze nigh,
With brave spears to protect and bright flowers to delight
And the song of the Barrow to lull us at night.

O sweet vale of the Saviour,* 'tis pleasant to be

A bold thrush in your woodlands unfettered and free,

And to pour from this pine-top glad trills clear and strong

For my gentle mate listening with joy to my song.

And to all who would hearken, in sooth I foretell,

That in Erin fair freedom with peace shall soon dwell;

Then awake, beloved Eire! for Winter is o'er,

And the Summer, with speed, comes to crown you once more.

E. O'L.

The famous Abbey of Graignamanagh [Grange of the Monks] was called De Valle Salvatoris.

VOL. XXXIV.-No. 395.

IN FIELDS OF HEAVEN

As through the meadows green we strolled,
Our little son, but four years old,
With busy hands and tireless feet
Went gathering all the daisies sweet.
Daisies pink-petalled, daisies white,
He gathered them from noon till night.

And as we wandered home at even,
Talking a little while of Heaven,

He, listening, asked with wondering eyes
About this Heaven beyond the skies;
And Daddy answered, with a smile,
"We'll go there in a little while.

"" And well I know what

you will do

When angels open the door to you!"
"What?" asks the wondering little one.
"To pick God's daisies you will run !"

"And has Heaven fields, and flowers, and trees,
And birds, and daisies just like these?"

And Daddy answered with a smile,
"We'll know, sweet, in a little while."
Oh! little time indeed you stayed!
Even as you spoke, I felt afraid.
Darling, 'twas well we could not know
That you would have so soon to go.

But you are gone; and oft at even
I think of you in the fields of Heaven,
And wonder if you lonely are,
Beyond the gleam of moon and star,
For the little child with tireless feet
Who gathered all the daisies sweet,
And if Heaven holds a greater joy
Than a little, human, four-years boy.

NORA TYNAN O'MAHONY.

ON

A DREAM OF THE INFLUENZA

NE night, while suffering from an attack of influenza, I was being tucked in by a friend whom I loved.

"I hope you will sleep well," she said.

"I fear not," I answered, crossly.

"Oh!" she said, bent on cheering me," think of all the poor patients in hospitals to-night who cannot sleep for pain or weariness, or from the coughs and snores and groans of the other patients!"

Now this remark, and such as If you were there!" always irritate me. I answered with asperity: "What on earth has a hospital to say to me? Do you think it does me good, or the patients good, to dwell on each other's sufferings? Will it make me sleep?"

She answered mildly, " It might help to make you thankful." "I am thankful, and I am sorry for them, but what good can piling up the agony do them, or me? It's a mistaken idea."

Seeing the soothing effect of her homily lost on me, she kissed me, said good-night, and left me. But the echo of her words remained, and I murmured to myself, "Pity them! Ah, poor souls! indeed, indeed I do, and were I walking through wards of a hospital now, I feel as if the sight of all their sufferings might make me wish to take up some of their pain and carry it awhile for them."

So thinking, I fell asleep, seemingly only to waken up instantly, feeling conscious of something secure, soothing, and comforting about me. Without surprise I saw a beautiful Being at my side. A soft effulgence shone around his form, a radiance surpassingly beautiful on his face. A sweet but sad smile met my look, as the Angel said, "Come."

Instantly I arose, and, passing through the door, followed the Angel into the wards of a hospital. All was hushed and in dim light. No noise but a cough or low murmur of restless sleep. As we passed through, I caught at times the sound of voices. Coming near a screened bed, the Angel stopped there.

It was a poor woman, her face drawn with pain, her eyes wide open and beseeching in their look of agony. A nurse beside her was speaking to a young surgeon at the foot of the bed : "Can you give her nothing to make her sleep?”

"

Impossible," he answered.

"Had to bear the operation, you know, without anesthetics. She is really a plucky woman; but now all her nerves are astray, and make the pain worse. If she could only sleep, she would be all right."”

The Angel looked at me. "Wilt thou bear this woman's agony for a little while, and let her sleep?"

I felt startled, but, looking up into the Angel's face, took such courage and comfort from it, I answered, "Yes, I am ready."

"Come, then," said the Angel, near her, and take her hand in thine."

I did so, and instantly a fever of pain racked my nerves; agony in every fibre, succeeded, however, shortly by a weary fatigue, then a dulness of nerve and brain.

Just as a calm fell, the Angel said, "Come." I arose from my knees, and there in soothing sleep lay the poor patient, and on the nurse's face real happiness and a look of relief.

I followed the Angel once more, and next minute we entered into a small room. Only one patient lay there, a fearful sight. A man strapped to the bed, unable to lift arm or limb, a face of horror and fright, a torrent of awful words culminating in a howl of fear, a convulsion of frame as though recoiling from a hated contact, froth and blood on his blue lips, and the sweat of agony pouring from his face. A nurse stood near and moistened his brow with water. At a table near, a student sat, watching.

"Stop that, nurse, it is no good. He fancies you are one of the black devils touching him. He is booked to go in a few hours at this rate, when the fit wears out."

"Can nothing save him?" the nurse asked.

you

"Nothing. And a good job too, for his relatives." "His wife does not think so," answered the nurse, should have seen her this afternoon, crying over him. I did feel for her. She said, If God only will spare him once more, I know he will change. He had been trying, and it was some bad

friends who again got round him.'"

"He had D.T. before," answered the student. This is