In a few moments, there leaped to land, not the enchanted Irish chieftain, but a better man, Barry O'Donoghue, who had as good a right to call himself "_the_ O'Donoghue" as any other member of that numerous family. Then he handed out his wife, Kathleen, who three years before he had been obliged to steal away from her unkind and foolish parents,--and little Master Harry O'Donoghue, a handsome, curly-headed little rogue, who jumped at once with a merry laugh, into the arms and into the hearts of his grandparents. After a great deal of embracing and kissing, Barry said, in reply to a host of wondering exclamations and questions: "We have come back from Australia, where we were getting rich, because Kathleen could not be longer away from home and you. We have brought a little fortune with us, and mean to settle down here in dear old Killarney, if you will be reconciled to us, and take us for neighbors." "And if you will forgive me, for not coming back to you a great lady," said Kathleen, smiling. "Don't say any more about that," said Michael More, embracing her for the twentieth time,--"We are glad enough to have you back just your old self, and it's quite content we are with your husband and the boy--and bad luck to all fortune-tellers! say I." With that, old Stephen blew an applauding farewell note on his bugle, and the Mores and O'Donoghues all went into the cottage, where we will leave them. Limerick. LITTLE ANDY AND HIS GRANDFATHER. We travelled from Killarney to Tarbert, on the Shannon, by the stage-coach, passing through several old, but uninteresting towns, and seeing a great deal of barrenness and wretchedness on our way. At Tarbert, we took a steamer, to ascend the river to Limerick, and as the weather that afternoon was clear and bright, we had one of the most delightful trips you can imagine. The Shannon is a very noble river--in some places widening out like a sea, and all the way running between beautiful green shores. There is a place in the river, near the mouth, which has somewhat the appearance of rapids, when the tide is coming in. This, the people say, is the site of a sunken city, whose towers and turrets make the roughness of the water. The whole city can be seen every seven years, but, as the sight is said to be unlucky, every body avoids it. The whole story is about as probable as the one I have told you of the damp and dubious palace of the O'Donoghue.