NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

FAIRY FENELLA.

AN IRISH STORY.

I.

THE DOVECOTE.

it is gone to

"I WONDER what he is like. Old Peter says the Finn Hill car drove past the gate two hours ago. I suppose meet him, and he must almost be arrived by this time." "Nonsense, Reby, he can't be at Finn Hill for an hour yet." "Ah, well, patience, we shall see him to-morrow."

"I presume you girls are chattering about Mr. Sinclair; as though you had never seen a man in your lives," interrupted a brisk, loud voice from the further end of Mrs. Drummond's drawing-room.

"You must admit that we do not see many men, Aunt Harriet, so we may be forgiven for being a little curious about Mr. Sinclair. The sight of any stranger makes a break in the dead level of our existence."

The last speaker had been apparently buried in a book, and only joined in the conversation to protect her sisters from their aunt's sarcasm. She raised a very attractive face as she spokea pretty, clever face, which was quite charming when she looked animated and happy, but was, in general, overclouded with discontented, useless repining at the dull life her fate condemned her to lead. Poor Josephine Drummond! She was neither painter nor musician, she had no schools to teach, nor poor people to visit -her sisters did all that-no housekeeping to see after, because her aunt and mother managed the household, and nobody to tempt Jan.—VOL. III. NO. XIII.

B

her to undertake a household of her own, for the parish of Ballyshandra was the veritable Ultima Thule-a region shut out by ocean and mountain barriers from the civilised world.

There was little to induce strangers to visit the place. If any came at long intervals they came by invitation, and Josephine's aunt and mother did not care to invite people.

The girl was of a restless nature, and loved amusement, hence her habitual discontent.

The young ladies who were so anxious to see the above-mentioned Mr. Sinclair, were her younger sisters, pretty girls both of them, but not nearly so handsome as herself.

The other occupant of the drawing-room was Aunt Harriet, a homely, middle-aged lady, whose careless dress seemed to testify to the world that she did not much care whether it admired her

or not.

"Oh, Harriet, you are so untidy," was the frequent cry of her nieces; "your hair is hanging down, and you have a border of mud on your petticoat."

"Never mind, dears, never mind," as one of them would dart upon her with a brush. "I am quite lovely, only don't keep me. Mrs. M'Auley is waiting for powders for her baby, and old Joe Donnel wants a cough bottle. Who has dared to touch my laudanum? Who can have been so presumptuous?"

Aunt Harriet used to break away from her persecutors, and shut herself into her sanctum, whence she presently emerged with a bottle in each hand, looking more dishevelled than before.

She was a famous physician, prided herself upon her skill in treating children's ailments, kept a large stock of drugs on hand, was the idol of the country people, and the arch enemy of the dispensary doctor, who was very jealous of her interference in his province.

It was not known that she had had a single romance in her life, but she was a very busy, and consequently a happy woman. She was a valuable sister to Mrs. Drummond, took care of her, helped with her housekeeping, looked after her children, who were dear to her as if they had been her own; bought, arranged, and mended the family wardrobes; kept the accounts, managed the garden and farm, and doctored the parish at large.

With all these occupations, and her large, kind heart, homely, ungraceful Aunt Harriet was a much happier woman than her pretty niece Josephine, who could not cut out either work or amusement for herself.

As the said Josephine made that remark about the expected arrival of Mr. Sinclair being a break in the monotony of their life, the drawing-room door was flung open, and the three Miss

O'Haras, of Ballyshandra Castle, the nearest neighbours and dearest friends of the Drummonds, fluttered in.

All three were dressed in pale pink muslin dresses, with shawls thrown negligently over their plaits and chignons.

They were possessed of a very fair portion of good looks, but their secluded life had tended to make them more or less awkward and shy.

Ellen O'Hara placed herself beside Sophy Drummond on the window-seat, while the other girls surrounded Aunt Harriet's writing-table to discuss the forthcoming picnic.

"We have just run over to ask what provisions you intend taking to-morrow. Mamma is giving her orders, and she wants to know."

"Chicken pie, strawberry tart, rice pudding," began Aunt Harriet, fluently, when a loud commotion was heard without, shrieks of wild laughter and flying footsteps, and two girls of about sixteen, gauches and unformed, rushed to the open window, and having displaced the "lovers," as Sophy and Ellen were facetiously termed, sprang into the room.

"The two Kates! Those irrepressible Kates, I dcclarc. What mischief have they been up to now?"

"No mischief, Aunt Harriet," cried both maidens, as they reached the writing-table with flying tresses and torn petticoats. "Oh, Jane and Josephine, he is not come! The car is gone by without him."

"How do you know?" from all the voices in the room.

"We have been hiding in the evergreens at the gate for the last half-hour to watch for the car. When we saw he wasn't there, we shouted to M'Pherson to stop, and he says the boat came in as usual at four, but no Mr. Sinclair on board, so he just drove home."

"What a pity! What shall we do about the picnic? It can't be put off."

"But you should not have spoken to M'Pherson. What if he were to tell Mr. Fitzpatrick that the young ladies of the Lodge were on the watch for Mr. Sinclair," suggested Josephine, in an annoyed tone.

"We don't care! we don't care!" from the two Kates. "Let him think it was you and Jane. You're so foolish and particular, Josephine."

"Come here, Kate Drummond," called her aunt; "you've torn your frock, and it's the only one you have clean for to-morrow. Come here, and stand still while I put a stitch in it." "What a pity," repeated the young ladies once more. would have been the best excursion this year if he had come. He

"It

and his brother and James, with Mr. Oliver, who, for a great wonder, has promised to come, would have made a nice sprinkling of gentlemen."

"But we shall have no good of Captain Sinclair, he will not leave Geraldine's side, you know; and as to James, all the world knows that he cannot spare a word or thought for any one but Lucy."

"Quite right, Josephine; still, the gentlemen improve the look of our party, and were Mr. Sinclair to come he would be obliged to talk to one of us."

As Jane O'Hara made this naïve remark, each of the fair assembly was conscious of a fleeting wish that that distinguished young lady might be herself. It stood to reason that the guest could devote himself to only one; but the sisters and friends of that fortunate one would not feel a shade of jealousy or envy.

Sophy and Ellen did not join in the speculation. It was little to them who might or might not be of the party to-morrow, for they would be sure of having one another, and would spend the day as they had spent many former days, in wandering about armin-arm, or sitting under a rock close together, away from the rest of the company. They did not envy Geraldine her Cecil Sinclair, or Lucy her devoted friend; and it troubled them very little that their romantic friendship furnished Mr. Fitzpatrick and others of their acquaintance with very choice amusement.

The drawing-room was now almost quite full. Mrs. Drummond, a plump lady, still comely, who wore soft grey dresses and tasteful caps of lace, filled her own arm-chair. She was at work upon some knitting which her sister had put into her hands, before settling herself in the opposite chair to her evening task of making garments for the school children.

The sofas were occupied by the young ladies, still engaged in discussing the expected arrival, and hoping he might yet come in time to supply that little touch of excitement which their parties usually lacked.

A soft, continuous murmur floated over from the window, and provoked Aunt Harriet to call out:

"Good gracious, what can you have to talk about, Sophy and Ellen? Do keep something for to-morrow. Come, be useful, here are little petticoats to make."

Ellen laughed, but good-natured, self-denying Sophy started forward, holding out her hand for the work.

"I am quite ready to help you, Aunt Harriet."

"Nonsense, child, I was only in jest. There, go chatter to your

heart's content."

The Castle and Lodge were so close together that five minutes

walk alone separated these ardent friends. The Drummonds were in straitened circumstances, so that the Lodge, a small house standing in a pretty garden, rented from Mr. O'Hara, suited them exactly.

Mrs. Drummond, left a widow while her children were young, hit upon Ballyshandra when in search of a quiet locality where the necessaries of life were easily and cheaply obtained. In the first agony of her bereavement she had but one desire, and that was for quiet; and now that the grief was gone the love for seclusion formed in those sad times remained.

The parish of Ballyshandra, a wild region on the coast of Ulster, triangular in shape, was clasped on two sides by arms of the Atlantic, and cut off on the third from the rest of the world by a range of gaunt, heather-crowned mountains.

Mr. O'Hara, the hearty, easy-going landlord, his wife, one son and four daughters, whose ages ranged from sixteen to seven-andtwenty, and two maiden aunts, Miss Mary O'Hara and Miss Georgie Allen, inhabited the Castle.

There was

It was a particularly easy-going establishment. money enough to supply every want of every member of the household, but the family arrangements displayed little taste and less refinement. Rich velvet sofas and chairs harmonised badly with ink-stained table-covers and torn carpets, and caused thrifty Aunt Harriet to shake her head despondently whenever she entered the great reception-room.

These minor short-comings, however, were more than atoned for by the harmony that reigned within the Castle walls. The first thought of each was how to please and serve the others. The best sight in the whole country was the goodwill that subsisted between Mary O'Hara, the master's sister, and Georgic Allen, the sister of the mistress.

Miss Allen was a gentle, elderly lady, fond of fancy-work and novel reading. Her friend, Miss O'Hara, was Mr. Oliver's assistant in every good work, and his very warm admirer.

Mr. Oliver was a widower; a clever man, an interesting preacher, entirely devoted to the labours of his sacred calling. He lived near the church, about half-way between Ballyshandra and Finn Hill. Leaving the bevy of maidens whom we have introduced to the reader, to their innocent and moderate hopes of coming pleasure, it behoves us to turn our attention to the Fitzpatricks of Finn Hill, around whom the real interest of our story will circle.