work for her family and her lodgers (one other, I think, beside the "kite man ").

And in the warmer evenings, after his day's work, Tom Griffin would sit at the open door, smoking his pipe till twilight thickened into darkness. Then he would retire, leaving the door half-open for ventilation, and say his rosary before the crucifix over the mantel.

None disturbed him, though all saw him. Need it be written that Tom's nightly prayer, with either closed or open door, was the simplest matter of course to the "neighbours." As to the rest-the English aborigines-they had become a kindly folk by the 'seventies, and there were only shindies on Saturday nights, when the trouble (however intensely annoying to a man of Tom's "kite" temperament) was purely alcoholic and internecine and (at any rate in my memory) but seldom racial and religious, or in any way directed against their Irish fellowdwellers as such.

But at times, on pay nights, these British bricklayers' labourers did fight, and most furiously, amongst themselves. And there were Bank holidays, too, and-worst of all-there were Sunday evenings. Tom's patience was often exhausted, and he would close his door and bolt it, telling odd combatants who surged almost into his room, that he was a quiet man. "Yes, I'm a kite man." And, then, sorely perturbed over his distraction, he would resume the interrupted mystery.

One Saturday night a battle-royal raged in the "Hundreds," such as English or Irish memory could not recall since the later 'fifties. Irishmen-perhaps the worst peacemakers in the world when the din of battle is toward-imprudently rushed in to separate "brickie" from "brickie," and infuriated spouse from spouse. The racket, I was told by an eye-witness, was terrific. One could scarce hear one's self think, as Americans put it. Tom closed his door, and knelt again by the rushbottomed chair, his beads in hand. Suddenly cries from the surging groups without-shriller in their quality and accent than those from the more stolid British gladiators-warned him that the " peacemakers" had been drawn into a fray that was not of their making. Ireland was involved. Irishmen were giving and getting polthogues, doubtless spurred thereto by the redding blows" which are the peacemaker's lot the world

"

over, as well as in Scotland,* whence the phrase comes. Tom Griffin arose, disposed reverently of his beads, and took down the aged musket from the mantel-piece. These sketches, however, being records of simple fact, it is best for once to be prolix, and to say that all evidence points to his having done so, for my eye-witness's narratives simply pick him up at the point when he appeared outside his door, minus his rosary, but levelling his gun at the thickest of the fight.

Then, before firing his venerable weapon, Tom spoke these memorable words:

"I'm a kite man," he said-(" rather pale in the face," I have been assured)-"I'm a kite man. But, begor, boys, here's Limerick !”

And he fired. There was a blinding flash and a terrific report. The vanithee or Tom himself had mercifully drawn the slugs, as it proved, but I am assured on all hands that the bang was magnificent. The windows of the Hundreds rattled. An English officer, to whom I have told the story, assures me that by all the "rules of war" the hardened Fenian powder, caked and dried by years of toasting over the mantel-piece, should have split the barrel and blown Tom's honest head off. But nothing of the kind befell. The tough old musket stood the strain, and when Tom's face merged radiant from the wreaths of smoke which enshrouded it, the arena of the Hundreds ' was void and silent.

"Limerick," muttered Tom, with much satisfaction, putting his emblem of Fatherland back on its hooks, and taking the beads of his Faith once more between his fingers. Limerick."

And when my main informant-who chanced to be my father -emerged from behind the pump, where he had wisely taken cover when there was a '48-'67 musket playing alike upon the just and the unjust in the "Hundreds," the quadrangle was as bare of combatants "as a frog of feathers," and Tom Griffin was peacefully engrossed in his beads. Beati pacifici—even if they do lose their temper, once in a while.

JOHN HANNON.

* Sir Walter Scott calls it the " redding-straik," and mentions a Highland superstition which makes it the deadliest of wounds.

334

DUNMARA

AN ALLEGORY

MR. WALDRON had sufficiently recovered to sit up in his armchoir, and read his own book, with the assistance of a reading desk. Ellen now went out for walks, to try and freshen up her pale cheeks. She was glad of the wintry breeze that began to blow. She had begun to need those walks. She had also got nto the habit of watching the opposite houses of ev nings, envious of people who were many together, social and happy. It was dull and dreary in that old dingy-grand house in Wimpole Street.

One bracing day Felicia arrived in a pretty Victoria, at the door. She looked all pink and fresh with the driving as she walked into the dusky dining-room, wrapped up in her furs. Ellen was sitting by her father's chair, reading aloud, looking pale and somewhat spiritless. Miss Rothwell noticed this, though Ellen's face kindled immediately at her friend's appearance. After a time had passed, Felicia said,

"I have come to ask you a great favour, Mr. Waldron. I am going to have a ball on Thursday week. You must positively lend me Ellen. Now do hush, Ellen, and let me speak to your father. Of course you perceive that she is not looking well, sir. Her eyes are two shades darker than when I saw them last, and just look at her cheeks."

Mr. Waldron drew his darling's face near his dim eyes, and studied it.

"You are right, Miss Rothwell," he said; "I am very much obliged to you. She shall certainly go." "But, father, you will miss me."

"Not for one night," broke in Felicia.

"What a con

ceited person you are, Ellen! If you think yourself so very precious, I will promise to send you home as early as you please on Friday."

"She shall go, Miss Rothwell," said the old man ; that is settled. I wish I could go too, and see my little girl in a fine crowd. She will be admired. You will have no one there to compare with her."

"I shall be there, Mr. Waldron, so please don't make me jealous, or you will have me withdrawing my invitation, and running away."

"No, no, Miss Rothwell, you are very nice and fair to see, the very ideal of a delicate English maiden, but you are not so winsome as my half Spanish, half Irish sweetbriar rose."

"But, Mr. Waldron, you should hear mamma talking about me!" Miss Rothwell's mock distress raised a pleasant laugh in the dull dining-room. The whole place seemed to brighten for it, the very cinders dropping on the hearth made an unwontedly musical tinkle.

Thus it was settled that Ellen should go to the ball at Amberwolds on Thursday week.

Mr. Waldron was as anxious about his daughter's dress as any girl of sixteen about her own attire for a first party. He was thoroughly satisfied when she came to him on the eventful night, and sat smiling by his side, making his coffee, whilst the carriage waited. He marked the pearls on her throat and arms, and the classic beauty of her head, quite undecked, but for the exquisite pearl comb which topped its beautiful braids. It pleased him, also, that her bodice was cut in a quaint shape, which gave to her gown an artistic rather than fashionable grace. He thought that his dear little nurse was going abroad to receive the homage of a queen, and the old man was proud. He thought, also, that he should see her next day, and hear of her triumphs. He quite believed this for her truthful tongue had promised. Did not the matter depend on his child's dutiful will? After she had bade him good night, Mr. Waldron, although he had not been what is called a pious man throughout his life, took from the table a certain book full of pretty markers, wrought by Ellen's fingers. And he read a text: "Rejoice with me because I have found my sheep that was lost." And his manner of receiving the words was not quite profane. Perhaps, they bore two meanings for him: one to enrich the other.

Meantime, Ellen was driven away from London. She had