missing him by a hair's breadth, would spend ten minutes of the noon hour in reading the Irish news to Connor. There was Tom Barker, the meanest man among the number, who had never been known to give anything to any one before, absolutely bartered an old jacket for a pair of gilt vases which a peddler brought in his basket to the shop, and presented them to Connor for his Nora's mantel-piece. And there was idle Dick, the apprentice, who actually worked two hours on Connor's work when illness kept the Irishman at home one day. Connor felt this kindness, and returned it whenever it was in his power, and 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 fellow-workmen 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, she 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?"

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 hadn'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 toward 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 employés 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 don'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 didn't come. I somehow think she didn't." At the name of Nora the captain started. In a moment he asked:-"What is your name?"

"Pat Connor," said the man.

"And your wife's name was Nora?"

'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.

"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 didn't. I can't read; they kept it from me," said he.

"We didn'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?" 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; 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 wouldn't let me bring Nora over to me, but He's takin' me over to her and Jamesy, over the river; don'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.

WIDOW MALONE.-CHARLES LEVER.

Did you hear of the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone!

Oh, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts:
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;

From minister down

To the clerk of the Crown

All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone,
"Twas known

That no one could see her alone,
Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone,

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste,

"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,

My own!

Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone!"

And the widow thev all thought so shy,

Ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong;

And one comfort, it's not very long,

If for widows you die,

But strong,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh;

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.-JAMES T. FIELDS.

We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,

It was midnight on the waters
And a storm was on the deep.

Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers,

"We are lost!" the captain shouted
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean
Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.