“Oh, Felix agra, my brother, I'm your murdherer! My sister and I are both wealthy--he's dyin' docthor--come, come. Oh, agra Felix--agra Felix! To see you well--to see you well--the wealth of the world, if I had it, would go. My life--my life--docthor! Oh, that would be but little--but it, too, would go--I'd give it--all we have, my sister and I, to our blanket--to the shoes on our feet, and the coat and gown on our backs--all--all--you'll get--if you can save our brother, that I struck down and murdhered!” The doctor, a man of great skill and humanity, immediately ordered his horse, and mounting him, accompanied Hugh to the sick bed of his brother. On arriving there, they found him worse; and never before, nor during his whole professional experience, had the doctor witnessed such a scene. Hugh took his place behind Felix, who, by the doctor's direction, was placed in a half-sitting, half-recumbent posture in the bed; his arms were placed distractedly about him, his breast was his pillow, and his cheek, wildly and with voracious affection, laid to his. He was restrained from crying aloud, but his groans were enough to wrench the heart from which they proceeded to pieces. Sympathy, in fact, was transferred from the sick boy to his brother; and perhaps more tears were shed by the lookers-on from pity towards Hugh than Felix. But where was she, the bride and wife of a changeful day--of a day, in which the extremities of happiness and misery met? Oh, where but where she should and ought to be, at his bed-side, hoping against hope, soothing his wild ravings by her soft sweet voice; and when, in his delirium, the happy scene of the past day seemed reacted, then she knelt, ever ready to lead him, by her words and caresses, into a forgetfulness of his present pain. In his desperate struggles he fancied they were tearing her from him; and when the strength of several men could scarce restrain him, then came the mildness of her power. With her gentle hands and her fond, kind words she laid him in peace once more, and, kneeling by his side, cooled his burning temples with her pale fingers, and wetted his parched lips with the draught prescribed by the physician. When the crisis, however, approached, she saw by the keen glance of observant affection, that the doctor's manner betrayed his hopelessness of her husband's recovery. Then did her strength give way, and one violent fit of hysteric sobbing almost broke down her reason and physical powers. Unavailing was all their tenderness, and fruitless every attempt at consolation. Even her own beloved mother failed. “Alley, asthore agruc machree,” said she, “don't give way to this, for it's sinful; it's wrong to cry so bitterly for the livin'. You know that while there's life there's hope. God is merciful, and may think fit to pity you, anien machree, and to spare him for the sake of our prayers, that your heart mayn't be broken. Here's the priest, too, an' sure it's