Little Andy heard all the talk, but did not say any thing. He sat in a corner, busily at work, sewing up his bib. "What's that yer doing, Andy, darling?" said his father. The child looked up at him sadly and reproachfully, and answered,--"_Making a bag for you to go beg--when you're as old as gran'daddy_." Patrick Walsh burst into tears, flung his arms around his old father's neck, and begged his forgiveness. And even the proud Peggy was so affected that she fell upon her knees and asked pardon of God, of her husband and his father, for her undutiful conduct. For his part, the good old man forgave her at once. I need hardly say that he never went on the road; for, from that hour, Peggy was a better and gentler woman, and tried hard to make her house a happy home for her father-in-law, and so, for all her family. To be sure, her besetting sins--pride and temper--would break out once in a while, but God was stronger than either; she prayed to Him, and He gave her strength to get the better of them at last. Grandfather Walsh lived in comfort and content several years, and on his peaceful death-bed, blessed his son and daughter, and their children, very solemnly and lovingly. When all thought that he was gone, little Andy, who had been very quiet till then, began to cry aloud. The good old man, whose soul was just at the gates of heaven, heard him, opened his eyes, reached out his hand, and blessed his darling once more. Then he died. Wicklow. TIM O'DALY AND THE CLERICAUNE After leaving Limerick, we returned to Dublin, and there took a carriage, for a little tour in the neighboring county of Wicklow. Wicklow has been called "The Garden of Ireland," for the beauty of its scenery and the high cultivation of a large portion of its lands. It is full of romantic valleys and streams, lakes, glens, and waterfalls--varied by rugged, untamable wilds, and bleak, barren mountains. We first visited "the Dargle," or Glenislorane River, upon Lord Powerscourt's domain. This would be thought "a small specimen" of a river with us, as, except when the waters are swollen with a freshet, it is but a narrow and shallow mountain stream. But in Ireland it passes at such times for a mighty torrent, and at all times is greatly admired and respected. It runs very rapidly, with bright sparkles and pleasant murmurs, down a deep rocky ravine, whose jagged sides are overgrown with moss and ferns, and overhung with luxuriant foliage.