of tickets for Dispensary aid; for sickness has its permanent home in the Irish cabin, and fever lurks amidst the damp straw and the smoky atmosphere of the poor peasant's home. Some, however, came for articles of clothing, or for aid to make and repair them; others for some little assistance in diet, barley for a sick man's drink, a lemon or an orange to moisten the parched lips of fever; others, again, wanted leave to send a grandchild or a niece to the school; and, lastly, a few privileged individuals appeared to claim their weekly rations of snuff or tobacco,--little luxuries accorded to old age,--comforts that solaced many a dreary hour of a joyless existence. Amongst all the crowded mass there was not one whom Mary had not known and visited in their humble homes. Thoroughly conversant with their condition and their necessities, she knew well their real wants; and if one less hopeful than herself might have despaired to render any actual relief to such widespread misery, she was sanguine enough to be encouraged by the results before her, small and few as they were, to think that possibly the good time was yet to come when such efforts would be unneeded, and when Ireland's industry, employed and rewarded, would more than suffice for all the requirements of her humble poor. “Jane Maloney,” said Mary, placing a small packet on the table, “give this to Sally Kieran as you pass her door; and here 's the order for your own cloak.” “May the heavens be your bed. May the holy--” “Catty Honan,” cried Mary, with a gesture to enforce silence. “Catty, your granddaughter never comes to the school now that she has got leave. What's the reason of that?” “Faix, your reverance, miss, 'tis ashamed she is by ray-son of her clothes. She says Luke Cassidy's daughters have check aprons.” “No more of this, Catty. Tell Eliza to come on Monday, and if I 'm satisfied with her she shall have one too.” “Two ounces of tea for the Widow Jones.” “Ayeh,” muttered an old hag. “But it's weak it makes it without a little green in it!” “How are the pains, Sarah?” asked Mary, turning to a very feeble-looking old creature with crutches. “Worse and worse, my Lady. With every change of the weather they come on afresh.” “The doctor will attend you, Sally, and if he thinks wine good for you, you shall have it.” “'T is that same would be the savin' of me, Miss Mary,” said a cunning-eyed little woman, with a tattered straw bonnet on her head, and a ragged shawl over her. “I don't think so, Nancy. Come up to the house on Monday morning and help Mrs. Taafe with the bleaching.” “So this is the duplicate, Polly?” said she, taking a scrap of paper from an old woman whose countenance indicated a blending of dissipation with actual want. “One-and-fourpence was all I got on it, and trouble enough it gave me.” These words she uttered with a heavy sigh, and in a tone at once resentful and complaining.