so well together in the bush. “I wunna tell ye,” says she again, an aff she wint to bed. I tould all to my wife an axed her to find out, and by-and-bye she got it as a great saycret--the ould woman sucked the cow for food an purticted hersilf from the cowld ov the night by sleeping aside her. “Are you done, grandpa?” I turned, a girl stood behind us, having come unnoticed. “Yis, yis; what is it?” “Supper is ready, and I’ve been waiting ever so long to tell you.” “Come,” said the old man to me as he rose, “an have a bite.” I followed and when after tea I rose to take my horse for my homeward journey, my eyes must have expressed what courtesy kept my tongue from again asking. “Och, the little buk, is it. Well, I’ll trust ye wid it.” Leaving the room he returned with what looked like a greasy and much handled pass-book. “Take care of it,” he exclaimed with emotion, “an don’t keep it long.” Placing it in my pocket we parted. HOW THE BOOK WAS GOT. On retiring to my room that night, I examined the book given me with such reluctance and read every word of it before going to bed. I found it to be the diary of an Irishman who had left his country during the famine. In the ship on which he embarked for Canada typhus fever broke out and the incidents of the horrors of the voyage and of the equal horrors of the quarantine sheds on being landed at Grosse isle were described with a simplicity and directness that alternately moved me to tears and filled my bosom with indignation. Next day I set to work to copy the diary. On considering the matter I saw it would be necessary to learn somewhat of the writer, who he was, whether he survived the plague, and if he did, where he was now. The first day I could get away from duty found me on the road to interview the old man a second time. On restoring to him the book I expressed freely my indignation at the conduct of the landlords, of the ship-agents, and of the quarantine officers, and my pity for those whom they oppressed. My words seemed to be unlooked for. “Begorra,” said the old man, “I didn’t expict this aff ye. I tuk ye for wan that thought anything good enough for the likes of us.” Explaining my wish to publish the diary I asked him to tell me what he knew about its writer. “Sure he was my nevy, an I will tell ye awl about him.” Though it was mid-October the day was warm and the sun unpleasantly hot, and the old man suggested we should go to the orchard, where he could tell me what he knew without interruption. It proved a long interview for I had many questions to ask and the substance of his statement, though not in his words, I will now give as an introduction to the diary.