As she came nigh the top, I heard a weak and whining cry, something too deep for the voice of infancy, but seeming too faint for manhood. "Ay, ay," croaked the hag, harshly, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" and as she said this, she pushed open a door and entered a room, which, by the passing gleam of light as she went, I perceived lay next to the roof, for the rafters and the tiles were both visible, as there was no ceiling. I held my breath as I slowly stole along, and then, reaching the door as it lay half ajar, I crouched down and peeped in. CHAPTER XVII. A "SCENE" AND "MY LUCUBRATIONS ON THE ST. LAWRENCE." When the light of the candle which the old woman carried had somewhat dissipated the darkness, I could see the whole interior of the room; and certainly, well habituated as I had been from my earliest years to such sights, poverty like this I never had seen before! Not a chair nor table was there; a few broken utensils for cooking, such as are usually thrown away as useless among rubbish, stood upon the cold hearth. A few potatoes on one broken dish, and a little meat on another, were the only things like food. It was not for some minutes that I perceived in the corner a miserable bed of straw confined within a plank, supported by two rough stones; nor was it till I had looked long and closely that I saw that the figure of a man lay extended on the bed, his stiffened and outstretched limbs resembling those of a corpse. Towards this the old woman now tottered with slow steps, and, setting the small piece of candle upright in a saucer, she approached the bed. "There it is, now; look at it, and make yer mind aisy," said she, placing it on the floor beside the bed, in such a position that he could see it. The sick man turned his face round, and as his eyes met the light, there came over his whole features a wondrous change. Livid and clammy with the death-sweat, the rigid muscles relaxed, and in the staring eyeballs and the parted lips there seemed a perfect paroxysm of emotion. "Is that it?--are ye sure that's it?" cried he, in a voice to which the momentary excitement imparted strength. "To be sure I am; I seen Father Ned bless it himself, and sprinkle it too!" said she. "Oh, the heavenly--" He stopped, and in a lower voice added, "Say it for me, Molly!--say it for me, Molly! I can't say it myself." "Keep your eyes on the blessed candle!" said the hag, peevishly; "'t is a quarter dollar it cost me." "Wouldn't he come, Molly?--did he say he wouldn't come?" "Father Ned! arrah, 'tis likely he'd come here at night, with the Tapageers on their rounds, and nothing to give him when he kem!" "Not to hear my last words!--not to take my confession!" cried he, in a kind of shriek. "Oh, 'tis the black list of sins I have to own to!" "Whisht, whisht!" cried the hag. "'T is many a year ago now; maybe it's all forgot."