ness of her sex, assisted by one or two elderly gossips, who were by this time called in, she bathed the wound with spirits, and used every device which much experience in cracked crowns, acquired during the lifetime of Willy Donovan, her departed lord, suggested to her. Meantime Evans, whilst making his way down through the village, had been met, and recognised by the half-frantic sister of Dolan and her infuriated friends, who had been all for some time puzzled at the absence of him who was proverbial as

"Best stick on the flure,
First stick in the fight."

"There's the murderer of Mat Dolan, boys," cried the woman, as some ten or twelve yards off she recognised Johnny, who was conspicuous enough, wearing his shirt like a herald's tabard, as in his haste he had drawn it on at Hell-kettle. With a yell that might have scared the devil, thirty athletic fellows sprang forward at full speed after Evans, who wisely never stayed to remonstrate, but made one pair of heels serve, where the hands of Briareus, had he possessed as many, would not have availed him. He arrived at Mrs. Donovan's door before his pursuers; he raised the latch, but it gave not way-the bar was drawn within, and had his strength been equal to it, further flight was become impracticable. Turning with his back to the door, there stood Johnny, like a lion at bay, uttering no word, since he well knew words would not prevail against the fury of his foes. Forward with.

wild cries and loud imprecations rushed the foremost of the pursuers, and Evans's life was not worth a moment's purchase; a dozen sticks had already clattered like hail upon his guard, and on the wall over his head, when the door suddenly opening inwards, back tumbled Johnny, and into the space he thus left vacant stepped a gaunt figure, naked to the waist, pale and marked with a stream of blood yet flowing from the temple. With wild cries the mob pressed back.

"It's a ghost! it's Dolan's ghost!" shouted twenty voices, above all of which was heard that of the presumed spirit, crying in good Irish,

"That's a lie, boys, it's Mat Dolan himself! able and willing to make a ghost of the first man that lifts a hand agin Johnny Evans; who bate me at Hell-kettle like a man, and brought me here after, on his back, like a brother."

"Was it a true fight, Mat?" demanded one or two of the foremost, recovering confidence enough to approach Dolan, who, faint from the exertion he had made, was now resting his head against the door-post.

A pause, and the silence of death followed. The brows of the men began to darken, as they drew close to Dolan. Evans saw his life depended on the reply of his antagonist, who already seemed lapsed into insensibility.

"Answer, Mat Dolan!" he cried, impressively, "for the love of heaven, answer me-was it a true fight?"

"The voice appeared to rouse the fainting man. He raised himself in the door-way, and stretched his right hand toward Evans, exclaiming,

"True as the cross, by the blessed virgin!" and as he spoke, fell back into the arms of his friends.

Evans was now safe. Half a dozen of the soberest of the party escorted him down to the police-station, where they knew he would be secure; and Dolan's friends, bearing him on a car, departed, without an attempt at riot or retaliation.

This chance took place sixteen years ago; but since that day, there never was a fair at Dunlavin that the orangeman Evans was not the guest of Dolan; nor is there a fair-night at Donard that Mat Dolan does not pass under the humble roof of Johnny Evans. I give the tale as it occurred, having always looked upon it as an event creditable to the parties, both of whom are alive and well, or were a year ago; for it is little more since Evans, now nigh sixty years old, walked me off my legs on a day's grousing over Church-mountain, and through Oram's hole, carrying my kit into the bargain. Adieu. It will be a long day ere I forget the pool of "Hell-kettle," or the angels in whose company I first stood by its bubbling brim.

My little girl, the other day
(Three years of age a month ago)
Wounded her finger while at play,

And saw the crimson fluid flow.
With pleading optics, raining tears,
She sought my aid, in terror wild;
I smiling said, "Dismiss your fears,
And all shall soon be well, my child."
Her little bosom ceased to swell,

While she replied, with calmer brow,
"I know that you can make it well,
But how, papa? I don't see how."

Our children oft intreat us thus

For succor, or for recompense,
They look with confidence to us,
As we should look to Providence,
For each infantile doubt and fear,
And every little childish grief
Is uttered to a parent's ear,
With full assurance of relief.
A grateful sense of favors past,
Incites them to petition now,
With faith in succor to the last,

Although they can't imagine how.

And shall I doubtingly repine,

When clouds of dark affliction lower? A tenderer Father still is mine,

Of greater mercy, love, and power; He clothes the lily, feeds the dove,

The meanest insect feels his care; And shall not man confess his love,

Man, his own offspring and his heir? Yes, though he slay, I'll trust him still, And still with resignation bow; He may relieve, he can, he will

Although I cannot yet see how.