“Do you tell me my nephew, that rode on my knee the day I left Ireland, is in Canada? Why did he not come wid you?” Then she explained; told us of what he had been to the sick and dying and how the day before she left he had been stricken himself. She wanted to stay with him, but he told her to hasten to her uncle and if he had a mind he might come and help him; she could do no good to stay. I jumps up. “I’ll go,” I cries, “and will bring him back wid me here safe and sound.” As I said that I caught my wife’s eye so pleading like, not to go. But I did. I got my neighbors to look after my hay and off I started next morning, bright and early, to catch the stage at the Potash. When old Mr Oliver heard my errand, he told me to go back to my family, but my mind was made up. When my own brother was adying I was in comfort. I was determined my nephew would not suffer like him and me so near. When the stage came along I jumped into a seat and before darkening I was in the city. All the talk there was about the fever, and how the poor creatures were dying by the hundred in the sheds at Point St Charles. Everybody was in mortal dread of infection and the police had orders to watch that none of the emigrants got past the wharves or out of the sheds, but some did, and they were hunted down and taken back. I kept my whisht as to my errand and listened in the bar-room of the tavern to one story after another, that made the blood run cold to my heart. After an early breakfast next day I left the tavern and walked down to where the steamer sailed for Quebec. It was a beautiful morning and I thought it the prettiest sight I had seen for a long time, the blue river sparkling in the sun and the islands and the other shore looking so fresh and green, with the blue mountains beyant. It was going to be a while before the steamer was ready, for there was a pile of freight to put on board, and I walked up a bit to look round me. In turning the corner of a shed I sees lying on the ground a young lad with a girl leaning over him. I went up to them. “What’s come over you, my boy, that you be lyin on the ground?” asks I. Never a word from either. I went close up and I sees his eyes closed and his face white as death, with his head resting on the girl’s lap. “God save us, what’s wrong?” Never a word. “Can I do anything for you?” I says, placing my hand on her shoulder. She lifted up her head that was bowed down on the young man’s, oh so slowly, and looked at me, her face white and sunk like. “No,” she whispered, “he’s adyin.” “Dyin like this in a Christian land,” says I, “I will get help.” I ran back to where the crowd was and tould a policeman. “They’ll be escaped imigrants,” says he, “and must be sent back, the villins,” and off he comes with me. I led him to the place and he flourished his big stick, shouting, “What div ye mean, coming among Christian people agin orders?” I caught his arm. “Don’t touch them; he’s dyin,” for I heard the rattle in his throat. We stood