The fault of poor Dennis, had it been inquired into, did not deserve the severe punishment with which it was visited. His sweetheart, Peggy Doyle, had been seized with typhus fever, which was at that time prevalent. The common people in Ireland have a dread of fever almost incredible. The nearest relations of the sick will often refuse to visit them, and many times the suffering individual is almost totally deserted, unless there be some devoted wife, child, or mother, whose affection is stronger than the fear of death. Poor Peggy had caught the infection from a family, one of the girls of whom was her particular friend; the whole of the family, consisting of five individuals, were unfortunately ill at the same time, and Peggy, finding that no one would attend them, heedless of all selfish considerations, had given up her place to become their nurse. The father and a little boy died, but the two girls and the mother became convalescent. During this time she had been often assisted by Dennis, who shared cheerfully with her in the labour and danger to which her disinterested benevolence had exposed her. While they were ill, she had remained perfectly healthy, but the disease was working in her blood, and her friends were scarcely able to crawl about, when their kind nurse was stretched on the bed from which they had just risen, with every symptom of the disorder more aggravated than that from which they had recovered. This was a heart-breaking business to poor Dennis; every moment he could spare he was at her bedside, and the night on which he had been absent from roll-calling, she was so ill, that, in his anxiety for her, he had forgot the hour of tattoo, and the reports were given in before he reached the barrack. I exerted the little influence I possessed to get Dennis forgiven, and was successful, and to prevent any misunderstanding, I got leave for myself and him for the night. When this point was gained, I accompanied him to see poor Peggy, but being insensible, she did not know me; she did not rave, but there was a deadly stupor in her eye. Poor Dennis was affected to the heart, but he endeavoured to bear it with fortitude. The girls were still too weak to endure the fatigue, and were in bed, but the mother sat beside us. It was evident that life was now fast ebbing—her eye became more glazed, the livid circle round her mouth became deeper, and her respiration more laborious. We had been sitting in silence for some time, watching the progress of dissolution, when we were startled by the melancholy and lengthened howl of a dog, outside the door. I cannot, need not, attempt to describe the effect it had upon us. ‘Ah! that’s a sure sign,’ said the old woman, when she recovered herself, ‘the poor child will soon be gone.’