Patrick found that his family had indeed made a happy change. There was no gainsaying that. And he himself experienced no difficulty in procuring employment; but he was far from being so well content as the others. He wrote to Norah upon his arrival at New York, and again when he had found his father and mother; and he wanted sadly to invite her to join him in America. But for the same reason that he did not return to Ireland, he dared not ask her to come over; for if he could not leave his friends how could she hers? He would have gone “home,” as he persisted in calling it, but, strange to say, Ellen was not in the least humbled in her exactions by the fact of her own marriage. She loved Pat better than any body in this world, her own husband and her own child not excepted, and it was with a feeling of wrong that she heard or thought of his loving any one else, or being beloved by any.

Sad news began now to come from the old country. The O’Brien’s had no letters; but others had, and the newspapers were full of the dreadful destitution and the deaths from starvation in Ireland. Now poor Patrick was worse afflicted than he had been by separation from his parents. Tidings came of starvation and death in houses the inhabitants of which he knew were wealthier far than Norah’s father; and he feared and dreaded that she might even want for a bit of bread, while he rolled in plenty. Had he pursued his own inclination he would have posted back—but Ellen said—“Don’t think of such a thing! Is it mad you are? When there’s people dying there of the hunger will you go snatch the bread from their mouths? Or will you go ‘home,’ as you call it, and feed the three kingdoms from your own pocket?” Patrick was hurt—and he thought of the two Norah was far the better comforter.

Deep indeed was the distress that rested upon unhappy Ireland. And Patrick’s fears for his friends at home were but too well founded. Sickness and famine invaded the district in which Patrick was born; and though his old master at first was bountiful to those around him, stern necessity at last brought its admonition that he must hold his hand. There is distress that opens the heart; but when it comes to dividing your living with your neighbor, to become at last fellow in his need, the instinct of self-preservation chills charity. Nevertheless, the good farmer gave—and gave a day too long; for the time came when he could count his own scanty provision in food and in purse. Impoverished, he learned at last to suffer and to sicken. He buried his wife out of his sight, and his children sunk one after another into the grave. He denied himself bread to feed his famishing family—almost rejoicing, while the dead lay unburied in his house, that with the release of child after child, the need of food and the wail of hunger diminished. And now at last Norah and himself only remained of all that happy household; and they had but to prepare their last food and die. The immense demand which had been made upon the charitable had proved too great for the supply; and men had ceased at last to think it a strange thing that people died of hunger.

Often did Norah think in her distress of him who was now far away. And heartily she rejoiced for his sake, that he had not remained to add another claimant on the public charity, to the thousands who pleaded unavailingly for it. But it was sad to think that he must one day hear that her he loved had sunk into the grave, the last of her house, for to death she firmly looked as the only hope of release from suffering.

A footstep broke the silence; but it hardly disturbed her revery. It was the kind ecclesiastic who had been present at the death of her mother and her brothers—who had seen her sister’s eyes closed, and to whom she herself looked, at no distant day for the last offices of the church. His frequent visits had become part of her daily experience, but she saw now that his face wore something more than the usual calm expression. She looked up inquiringly, and he placed in her hands a letter, addressed to his care for her.

She knew the handwriting, and could scarce command firmness to break the many seals and wafers with which over caution had secured the letter. It was from Patrick, and enclosed more money than she had before seen for many weeks. “Now, God be praised,” she cried, “my father shall find comfort again!”

“He has found it, daughter!” said the priest in a solemn voice from the bedside. Norah hurried there, to receive, in the last faint smile, a father’s inaudible blessing.

Need we say that the good priest gave Norah sound advice: to wit, that the money which she had received were better expended in finding her way to Patrick, than in protracting a weary existence in the place now so sad to her. Ellen’s welcome was not the least hearty which Norah received; and all agree that there was a Providence in the events which guided Patrick before her to America. Norah is cherished as one of the “childher,” and Mrs. O’Brien insists that her mistake at the bedside years before, was only a bit of prophecy, for her heart always yearned to Norah as one of her own. All are well pleased; and though a shade of sorrow for her kindred is habitual to the countenance of Mrs. Norah O’Brien, it adds to the sweetness of its expression, and is a better look, in its resignation, than one of discontent or of vacuity.

As to the young cousins in the neighborhood, we leave their statistics to the next census. They have proved jewels of comfort to Grandfather Patrick, who, though quite infirm, is still useful to “mind the childer;” while Mrs. O’Brien, the grandmother, labors like Sisyphus to keep little feet in hose, with no hope that her work will ever cease while her breath lasts, or her fingers can ply a needle.

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BY R. H. STODDARD.

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OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

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BY T. S. ARTHUR

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(Continued from page 8.)