Need we say that the good priest gave Norah sound advice: to wit, that the money which she had received were better expended in finding her way to Patrick, than in protracting a weary existence in the place now so sad to her. Ellen’s welcome was not the least hearty which Norah received; and all agree that there was a Providence in the events which guided Patrick before her to America. Norah is cherished as one of the “childher,” and Mrs. O’Brien insists that her mistake at the bedside years before, was only a bit of prophecy, for her heart always yearned to Norah as one of her own. All are well pleased; and though a shade of sorrow for her kindred is habitual to the countenance of Mrs. Norah O’Brien, it adds to the sweetness of its expression, and is a better look, in its resignation, than one of discontent or of vacuity. As to the young cousins in the neighborhood, we leave their statistics to the next census. They have proved jewels of comfort to Grandfather Patrick, who, though quite infirm, is still useful to “mind the childer;” while Mrs. O’Brien, the grandmother, labors like Sisyphus to keep little feet in hose, with no hope that her work will ever cease while her breath lasts, or her fingers can ply a needle. * * * * * A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE. BY R. H. STODDARD. I’VE lost my little May at last; She perished in the Spring, When earliest flowers began to bud, And earliest birds to sing; I laid her in a country grave, A rural, soft retreat, A marble tablet o’er her head And violets at her feet! I would that she were back again, In all her childish bloom; My joy and hope have followed her, My heart is in her tomb; I know that she is gone away, I know that she is fled, I miss her everywhere, and yet I cannot make her dead! I wake the children up at dawn, And say a simple prayer, And draw them round the morning meal, But one is wanting there; I see a little chair apart, A little pin-a-fore, And Memory fills the vacancy, As Time will—nevermore! I sit within my room, and write The lone and weary hours, And miss the little maid again Among the window flowers; And miss her with her toys beside My desk in silent play, And then I turn and look for her, But she has flown away! I drop my idle pen and hark, And catch the faintest sound; She must be playing hide-and-seek In shady nooks around; She’ll come and climb my chair again. And peep my shoulder o’er, I hear a stifled laugh—but no, She cometh nevermore!