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 towards 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 employees 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 byand-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, and I can't find her."

"Perhaps she's gone ashore."

"I bade her wait."

"Women don't always do as they are bid, you

know."

"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."

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?"

"She sailed with us."

"Where is she?"

The Captain made answer.

"My man, 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. We have had illness on board, the cholera. You knew that."

"I didn't. I can't read; they kept it from me." "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. went ashore? Ought I to be looking

Did ye say Nora

for her, captain?” When we were

"Many died; many children. half way here your boy was taken sick."

"Jamesy," gasped Connor.

"His mother watched him night and day, 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 Conner stretched out his arms, perhaps he did see Nora-Heaven only knows, -and so died.

EUGENE ARAM'S DREAM.

THOMAS HOOD.

'Twas in the prime of summer-time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school;

There were some that ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets in a pool.

Like sporting deer they coursed about,

And shouted as they ran,—

Turning to mirth all things of earth,

As only boyhood can,

But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch Heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease;

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide;

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp:
"O God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"

Then leaping on his feet upright:
Some moody turns he took,-

Now up the mead, then down the mead,

And past a shady nook,—

And lo! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book.

"My gentle lad, what is't you read,

Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable ?"

The young boy gave an upward glance,―

The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,-
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;

And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men
Whose deeds tradition saves;

Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;

Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod,—
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;

And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God;