“‘Say nothing about who brought it, Nelly, if it’s _there_, and he’s not,’ said his reverence—he paused awhile, but I knew by the twinkle of his eyes, he was thinking of something past the common— “‘It’s a mighty fine dinner, Nelly!’ “‘It is, your reverence.’ “‘Nelly, it’s a sin and a shame to have such a dinner as that in the house, and no wedding.’ “‘True, for your reverence.’ “‘Nelly, we must have a wedding!’ and he looked me through and through. “‘Your reverence,’ I said—hardly knowing how to answer, ‘knows best; but I don’t see how at this present time; it’s my ignorance, your reverence.’ He shook his head and smiled. “‘I know the secrets of more hearts than one, and instead of going down to the court, just step away to Philip Roche, and tell him what happened and how Mary kept true to her old love, and let him dress himself at once—we’re not tied to canonical hours like our neighbors—and tell him from me, to come here, and before the evening’s out, Nelly, we’ll have a wedding, and a dinner, and a dance!’ “Oh, how I flew! There was Philip in the thick of cold iron, reading a paper about emigration. I never saw a man so altered: he was but the ghost of himself, bent and bowed and broken-hearted, he seemed, and his voice as changed as himself, he knew me at once, and knew that it was _her_ wedding day. “‘It’s all over by this time, I know,’ he said, with a ghastly smile; ‘and I suppose you have brought me the bride-cake tied with green riband.’ “‘Here was the place,’ he continued, going across a little yard, ‘where I thought she might live quiet and content; a pretty, bright room for London, and two others inside it—she could sit in that window at her sewing, and sing; and, if she raised her head, see me at work at the forge—she never even answered my letters—for I was too hasty that evening; but it’s over now. She never can be any thing more to me; yet this day’s post brought me a letter, telling of an uncle’s death in New York, who has left a good thousand English pounds, to be divided between my brother and myself; so I’ll just sell off, and go after it. Old Considine might have kept his money; it was not _that_ I wanted; but it’s all over!’ Such a wail as there was in the voice of the strong, broken down man, like the _sough_ of the winter’s wind, I could keep silent no longer. I believe he thought me wild—mad; I could hardly begin my tale for joy—joy throbbing in my heart—joy beating in my throat, and keeping back my words. I got it out at last, all that passed in one little hour, on which depended so much happiness or misery; oh, aunt, he is such a great darlint! Not a bit of exultation over Mr. and Mrs. Considine; only bitter reproaches to himself for not having understood Mary better; wondering if she could ever forgive him!—and so glad her father was not badly hurt. Oh, how my heart warmed to him! And when, at last, I bid him trust all to his reverence, to see how quickly