different. Denis possessed a deep, uncultivated brogue and inherited his father’s bullying delivery. George spoke with a polished English accent. Their manners also were in strong contrast. George stood up when she entered a room, placed a chair for her, and listened to all she said with deferential attention. Denis contradicted her freely and frankly, and would as soon have thought of standing on his head, as of offering her a seat. She was his mother, and therefore of course devoted to him. It was her business to mend his clothes and his socks; fill his purse, and hide his scrapes; all this was _her_ duty, and his----? Well, he offered her his cheek to kiss every morning, when he was at home, and wrote to her regularly--if he wanted money--when he was abroad. George resembled his father. Poignant, melancholy memories stole into her mind, as she watched him through misty eyes--memories long banished by heavy cares, and heavy bills, and selfish domestic tyranny. What a different life hers might have been, had George Holroyd lived! Cuckoo, who had now brought her performance to a violent end, came over to the fire, and stared expectantly at her elder brother, with a half simpering, half impudent expression. “Thank you, Cuckoo,” he said with a dubious smile. “Thank you for what?” she enquired with a giggle. “Well, since you ask me, for leaving off.” “I hate music!” thrusting her bony shoulders out of her frock. “So I should imagine! Mother, won’t you sing something?” At this suggestion Denis opened his mouth in amazement, and then burst into a loud and scornful guffaw. “For goodness’ sake don’t ask the mater to sing; you don’t know her voice now; it’s like a cracked fog-horn.” George turned sharply to his brother, with an angry light in his eyes, but Mrs. Malone interposed hastily: “I never sing now; you forget that I am quite an old woman, my dear George,” and she smiled up into his face a pitiful smile. But the little attention had pleased her; she had been a renowned singer in her day. What a pathetically sad little sentence that is to many a woman--“In her day.” How short is that day! How fleeting--how soon forgotten by all but herself! “How nicely your clothes fit, George,” remarked his sister. “What a swell you are!” stroking his coat admiringly. George made no reply: he could not return the compliment. Cuckoo’s shabby frock was nearly up to her knees, her shoes were white at the toes, and her pigtail was tied with a boot lace. “We have never sat here since Aunt Julia was over, last spring,” continued Cuckoo, as she threw some turf on the fire. “Oh, has _she_ paid a visit here? I did not know.”