The same dread that prevented the neighbours from visiting her in her sickness, restrained them from attending her wake; but it was so much the better—none but true hearts mourned over her—no tears were shed but those of affection—there was no boisterous or disgraceful mirth, such as I have witnessed on similar occasions. A few neighbours, more friendly than others, ventured into the outer apartment, and remained during the night; but the old woman and the two girls sat alternately, and sometimes together, at the head of the corpse—and apostrophizing the inanimate clay, they ran over every endearing quality that she possessed, adverted to the happy moments they had passed in her company, and with the tears trickling over their cheeks, chaunted the plaintive airs which she was partial to, and had often joined them in singing. There was something in the scene so impressive and solemn, and in the simple tribute of affection to the remains of their friend so touching, that it was impossible to witness it without the heart whispering ‘it is good to be here.’ Having gone out for a few minutes to warm myself at the fire where the neighbours were sitting, I overheard one of the women repeating an irregular rhyme. ‘What is the meaning of that?’ said I. ‘It’s a rhyme,’ replied she, ‘that a poor innocent who frequented this used to repeat, and we happened to be talking about her.’ I expressed a wish to hear something concerning her; and in a detached and irregular manner she told me the following story:— Molly Kelly was the daughter of a small farmer in an adjoining county. She had been seduced by a young man of the same neighbourhood under promise of marriage, which he delayed to fulfil so long, that Mary, finding herself in a situation she could not long conceal, disclosed the secret to her mother. Knowing that her father was of a stern, unforgiving temper, she endeavoured to keep it from his knowledge, but it was soon found necessary to tell even him. In his first transports of rage, he threatened to take her life, and her mother was obliged to conceal her from his fury; she endeavoured to excite his pity for the unfortunate girl, but all she could get him to do was to restrain his anger until he saw whether the young man would marry her, who was accordingly sent for, but he refused in the most insulting terms. This was communicated by the heart-broken mother to Mary, who at the same time warned her of her father’s anger, and advised her to go to a relation’s house at some distance, until he could be brought to forgive her; this Mary at first refused to do, but her mother urged her departure, and she at length consented.