"'T is the sleep of Enceladus in Etna," I replied. "When they wake up and turn, 't is hot lava and ashes." "That's true, too," he said, musingly; "we are a strange people." My own voice again echoing out of the dead past. * * * * * Miss Campion and "her friend from Dublin," Miss Leslie, were very busy about the Christmas decorations. Mrs. Darcy helped in her own way. I am afraid she did not approve of all that was being done. Miss Campion's and Mrs. Darcy's ideas of "the beautiful" were not exactly alike. Miss Campion's art is reticent and economical. Mrs. Darcy's is loud and pronounced. Miss Campion affects mosaics and miniatures. Mrs. Darcy wants a circus-poster, or the canvas of a diorama. Where Mrs. Darcy, on former occasions, put huge limbs of holly and a tangled wilderness of ivy, Miss Campion puts three or four dainty glistening leaves with a heart of red coral berries in the centre. Mrs. Darcy does not like it, and she thinks it her duty to art and religion to remonstrate. "Wisha, Miss, I wouldn't be sparin' the holly if I was you. Sure 't is chape." "Ah, well, now, Mrs. Darcy, don't you think this looks neat and pretty?" "As nate and purty as yourself, Miss; but sure the parish priest won't mind the expinse. 'T is Christmas times, and his heart is open." This wasn't too kind of Mrs. Darcy; but it does not matter. She looked ruefully at the fallen forest of greenery that strewed the chapel floor. Miss Campion saw her distress, and said, kindly:-- "Now, Mrs. Darcy, is there any improvement you would kindly suggest before we conclude?" "Wisha, Miss, there isn't much, indeed. You have made it lovely. But I'd like to see a little bit of holly in the Blessed Virgin's crown, and just a weeshy little bit in her Child's fingers. Sure, whatever is going these Christmas times, them have the best right to it." Miss Campion smiled, and yielded to the pious wishes of the chapel woman, and then said:-- "Now, Mrs. Darcy, we'll put a few noble branches around the front porch, and whatever is left you must take it home, and let Jemmy decorate the dresser." The first suggestion met Mrs. Darcy's tastes to perfection; the second went straight to her mother's heart. "May God bless you, Miss; and may it be many a long day till throuble or sorrow crass the thrishol' of your dure." The neighbors flocked in on Christmas eve to see Mrs. Darcy's cabin. Jemmy had risen to the occasion. The polished pewter vessels and the brass candlesticks shone resplendent from the background of black holly and veined ivy, and the red pearls of the berries. The comments, like all human criticisms, varied according to the subjectivity and prejudices of the visitors. "Wisha, 't is purty, indeed. God bless those that gave it to the poor widow." "Wisha, Jemmy, agra, there's no knowing what you'll be when you grows up."