Janet's portion (which is the lion's share unquestionably), or three hundred pund, for instance-or twa hundred-or ane hundred-or even twenty pund-it would ha' been coarse and vulgar in the comparison. But a guinea! a delicate compliment, varra !"

Quiddy sat writhing in his chair; and his tormentor having taken breath, was again upon him :

"Meester Queddy-I'm thinking that a guinea is nae mickle money -that is to say, considered in the light o' money-in short, it is but a wee bit money: and, considered as a legacy it is an unco wee affair indeed. But Meester Queddy-as times go, a guinea is a guinea, after aw-it's just ane-and-twenty shillings, and quite enough, I'm taking the freedom to tell you, to dispense upon siccan a silly bauble, siccan a needless toy as a ring. But then, the sentiment, Meester Queddy, the sentiment!"

"Yes," said Quiddy, scarcely knowing what to say, "that's it."

"Meester Queddy-how differently the auld lady has treated Janet! Nae delicacy, nae sentiment in the proceeding, deil a bit. She has left her naething but the goods, the furniture, and that like-aw money's worth, Meester Queddy-and the trash o' siller too, a guid five hundred pounds, at the least. But where's the sentiment, as in your case, Meester Queddy? where's the delicacy?"

"D-n the delicacy!" cried Quiddy, unable any longer to endure with patience the doctor's grave raillery; "D-n the delicacy! I never cared about the money: but if I had chosen to carney and earwig the old 'oman, as some folks have done, I should have stood as good a chance of getting some of it as other folks-not that I care about it, not I!"

"True, varra true; and Mrs. Sanderson' ken'd that right weel, as her will shows. And yet I must say she has not proved hersel' ower grateful to you for your tender affection--always excepting the delicacy and sentiment of the wee bit legacy, Meester Queddy-whereas, I'm thinking that had you made up to Janet instead, and married her -I say, I'm just thinking-such are the contradictions in the human character-the old woman would have left you every stick and stiver of her property."

Having paused for just long enough, as he thought, to allow the barb of this last insinuation to fix itself well in the heart of his victim, Mc Squills continued

"And it would be nae sae bad a thing for you to marry Janet even now-always providing the lassie would have you, Meester Queddy, the whilk I doubt-for she'd mak' you a nice little wifie: as to the forfeiture thereby of the trash o' siller, you are altogether above any such sordid consideration."

"I'm not thinking of marrying nobody," peevishly said Quiddy; "and as to Janet, she knows well enough I wouldn't have her if she was worth her weight in gold."

So saying, and to escape from further torturing, he rose abruptly and went forward into the shop.

Meanwhile Janet had made herself ready for her departure. Previously to quitting her room she looked leisurely and attentively around it, as if bidding a last farewell to each familiar object; then, just placing her head upon the pillow on which it had enjoyed so many Oct.-VOL. LXIII. NO. CCL.

nights of sweet and peaceful sleep, she kissed it as though it had been a thing conscious of the grateful and affectionate feeling which prompted the act; and, having so done, she, with a sigh, descended to the room which had been the late Mrs. Sanderson's. Here, with her face buried in her hands, she knelt at the foot of the bed in which her benefactress expired, and murmured a short prayer. As she rose, she perceived lying on a chair in a corner of the room, the old woman's large bible, with her spectacles remaining in the very place where she had last been reading. She went down stairs, and timidly, and with some hesitation, asked the doctor whether she might be allowed to take something away with her "as a remembrance of poor Mrs. Sanderson."

"Its aw your ain, Janet," said Mc Squills; "you may tak' ony thing you please excepting the snuff and tobacco

Janet ran upstairs as Mc Squills added, "and Meester Queddy, and he, I reckon, is scarce worth the taking."

Janet re-descended with the big bible under her left arm, and a small blue paper band-box, containing all her "things," in her hand.

"I have taken this, if you please, sir," said Janet, casting her eyes down at the volume. "And now I'll bid Mr. Quiddy good-bye, and go with you."

The doctor went into the shop, and motioned to Quiddy to join Janet in the parlour. Janet took his hand in her right, which was disengaged, and looked him earnestly, but mournfully in the face. He, on the contrary, bent his eyes to the ground, and looked at once sheepish

and sullen.

For more than a minute (a long time under such circumstances) Janet endeavoured to speak, but in vain. At length, in a low and faltering voice, she said

"It need not have been so, Phineas; but it's all your own fault. Good-bye, for ever-God bless you, Phineas."

She rushed past the doctor, who was waiting for her in the shop, into the street, and hastily turned in the direction of his house. All that Quiddy said in reply to the adieu was—

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Good-bye, Janet-I'm sorry you're a-going."

"Meester Queddy," said Mc Squills, "I am not likely to trouble you with mony visits. If you want to see me professionally, and choose to send for me, I'll come to you. But ye'll no hae forgotten my system of practice, I reckon; and so good day to you-Meester Queddy."

That Janet once loved "Meester Queddy" is a circumstance not much to be wondered at-(albeit she was, perhaps, the only one woman to be found in ten thousand who could have placed her affections on so unloveable an object)-because love is an eccentric passion defying and deriding rule: that (aware as she had become of his heartlessness and mean selfishness) she still loved him, we doubt. What then, was the nature of her sentiments towards him? We believe it to have been nothing more than that feeling of settled and enduring kindness which, in bosoms incapable of hatred, will not unfrequently supply the place that has once been occupied by love.

P.*

A REMINISCENCE OF AN IRISH SQUIRE.

In the far west lived some years ago an eccentric gentleman known to the county round as the old Squire (or, as the natives pronounced it, the old "Square"). He was almost the last of his race. Even now, I look back to the days which I passed in my youth at his social board, with unmixed pleasure and delight. True, he hunted and fought, "rapt out" an oath occasionally, drank deeply, and had no objection to a "bit of broad humour." These things were the customs of his day; but still he was for the time and the locality highly educated-of a polished deportment and refined mind; had passed his youth in travels, and like most Irishmen of family and fortune at that time, had been much at foreign courts, and had much of continental manners about him. His heart was truly Irish; he loved his joke, and spent his estate "like a prince." He was a widower, and had an only son. A maiden sister presided over his house, which was always " open," it being no unusual thing to see, even in his absence, a dozen friends and relations enjoying themselves there.

But those times are past, and Galway, even Galway, is becoming like the rest of the world-thrifty, and cold, and money-making.

When without strangers or " alone" (as the old butler, Ned Mahon, would say), his staff consisted of the parson, and priest of the parish, a second cousin (who had sold his estate), and a "walking gentleman,' who having spent all he ever had on his neighbours, now lived upon them. Old O'Neil, the venerable harper, was often a visitor; and Phelim Mulrooney was the resident piper.

Very different were this parson and this priest from the same classes of men a little subsequently: they held their parishes by a sort of "tenure in descent." Both had been the Squire's companions in boyhood-the parson his chum at college; and, although while pursuing his studies in one of the French colleges (where his family had a bourse), the priest was for some years separated from the Squire and the parson -their boyish friendship had never decayed; and the whole trio were now settled down together in more advanced life, old and attached friends.

In the parson's family was vested the presentation to the living which he had been (without any particular vocation) bred to fill; and the priest being of an old and most respectable family, easily and as a matter of course obtained the parish which had been successively held for more than a century by his uncle and great-uncle before him. Uulike the priests and parsons of a later day, both those men hunted and sang, told merry stories and laughed at them together. By-the-bye, both took their claret freely, although they never committed an excess. It is much to be questioned, whether those "good, easy men," who associated with, and loved each other, were not of more use to society by the practical illustration they afforded of the divine maxim, "Love one another," than the sanctimonious-looking puritan or the political bully would have been. There were no bickerings nor quarrels in their parish; the landlords were kind to their tenants; and certainly

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Father Malachy never would have incited his people to rise in rebellion against their "liege lords."

Master Mick (as a gentleman of about fifty years of age, and standing six feet four" in his stockings" was called) was the second cousin of the Squire. In old-fashioned times, this was considered in Ireland a close connexion, and fully entitled a man to take up his permanent residence at your table. Master Mick had in his youth been placed in a dragoon regiment, where he quarrelled with his colonel, and wounded him in one of those antiquated things-a duel. He was dismissed the service for insubordination, and had settled down on an estate of a thousand a-year, which he very soon contrived to "finish." He never married, and had a strong affection for his old regiment, which affection he evinced by sending sixteen loyalists, all upwards of six feet high, to swell the ranks of the favourite corps. Bob Allen, the last of the party, was considered the best and most daring horseman of his day; numerous and extraordinary indeed had been his equestrian exploits, and he now lived amongst his friends, as many at that time did 'n Ireland, retaining one old and splendid hunter, the pride and comort of his declining days. He called this hunter Lightning.

It was when our Squire was alone with these select few, after a good day's sport (he kept a pack of hounds), and when the fire was made up and the "horse-shoe table" placed before it, that he was "in greatest force;" one story always drew forth another, and the evening was passed in the most delightful hilarity.

"Cousin Mick," said the Squire, "do, like a good man, fetch us a cooper of the old Château Margot, as I mean to enjoy myself quietly to-night-never saw a better run or hounds better ridden to. Bob, it did my heart good to see how old Lightning performed your last jump through the shafts of the standing cart in the gap; it showed his training and your pluck, in a manner that astonished some of the strangers." By the way," said Father Malachy, "how poorly Tom Dillon is looking. I thought he seemed rather shy to-day; and particularly so when he saw Master Mick at the covert.'

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"No doubt he did," said the Squire," and good cause he had. But I suppose as you were out of the country when it happened, and he did not come to hunt with me since your return, you never heard the story of it. Mick, you must tell Father Malachy how you served Tom Dillon and his ingratitude."

"Willingly," said Mick, who had now seated himself;" although I own that such conduct is enough to make a man a hater of his race. Never did one man do more for another than I did for that same Tom Dillon, and yet from that blessed day to this, he never asked me to his house, -not that it is any great loss, although indeed he used to be hospitable. You must know, gentlemen, that at the spring assizes, six years ago, there was a devil of a row at the grand-jury room in Galway. Harry Bodkin, myself, and others, were amusing ourselves looking at the number of presentments put in for the repairs of roads and the building of bridges, in all of which Dillon was put down as overseer, and every one of which he supported in the most warm manner, although he perfectly well knew he had never seen, and knew nothing about one-half of them. We accordingly drew up a presentment for building a bridge

at Catherlough (a place not in existence), making our friend overseer in this also; it was actually placed before the foreman, and when read out, was described by Dillon as a spot in a most dangerous and critical position, and which sadly indeed required the bridge.' The bridge accordingly passed. The next presentment read by the foreman (and which we also prepared), was one for bringing water to supply the 'aforesaid bridge.' But this was too much, and a general laugh arose. Dillon, who was not remarkable for stoutness,' well knowing that he could not venture on Bodkin or myself, said, addressing himself to Colonel Bingham (at that time a stranger, and who seemed highly to enjoy the joke), "such conduct was ungentlemanlike." Blows literally followed words, and the Colonel, as 'stout' a fellow as ever breathed, kicked him, not only out of the room, but out of the court-house, so that he was publicly disgraced. Days and weeks passed," continued Mick, "and Dillon, incredible as it sounds, took no notice of the insult. He was cut accordingly, and I was not a little annoyed at the turn things had taken, as his wife (who is as good a woman as ever had a house, and is a third cousin of my own) took it greatly to heart; but though she did all she possibly could, as a dutiful Galway wife, to induce her husband to call out the Colonel, she never could succeed.

"Cousin Mick," said she to me one day after dinner, "I want to consult you as to what we should do about this unfortunate man.' I did everything a woman could to make him challenge the Colonel, but he won't do it for me. I told him what the world would say-to no effect; and showed him letters from my father and my brother Toby, conjuring me to get him out, and offering to bring him through it themselves, if nobody else would assist him: it's a hard case to have the honour of a family lost when a thimblefull of powder would save it. As a last resource then, I beg of you to take him in hand; for what between love and fear, I think he is likely to do more for you than for any one else."

I at once undertook the business, and waiting on Dillon the next morning, told him how hardly he was spoken of, and that if he showed any pluck, he could easily get out of this ugly business with honour; as Colonel Bingham had himself told me he was most anxious for a reconciliation, and would willingly meet him more than half way. In fact, that if he gave me authority to arrange matters, all would end in a very short time amicably and well. He jumped at the bait; assured me he had intended sending for me to act as his friend, and put himself into my hands. I lost no time in setting off for the Colonel, who lived within a few miles. When I had ridden a short distance, I overtook Thady Madden, Dillon's foster-brother.

"Good morning to your honour," says he.

"The same to you, Thady," said I.

"By my soul," said he, "I know by your pleasant face that youdid good business this morning."

"Troth did I, Thady," says I, "I am first going to Colonel Bingham's."

"Glory to your honour," says he; "myself knew you would do it, and I tould the misthress so yesterday: and Heaven knows we all thought he'd come to when her honour took the five crosses that she'd