loving-cup, and the invocation to absent friends, had carried something a little serious with it, which, to the jolly Irishman, was thoroughly antagonistic. "Dear hostess," said he, placing the cup before him on the table, "I do not like the sentiment of your toast; ’t is ungallant. How can I, sitting between two such lovely ladies, find time or power to salute an absent one, howsoever fair? May I give you my toast for the loving-cup? Have I your permission to sing a stave from one of my national songs on the subject?" He was answered by a general acclamation of assent. Rising to his feet, the blond, burly giant held up the cup with its low ebb of crimson wine, and sang in a clear, strong voice the following couplet:-- "Oh! ’t is sweet to think that where’er we rove We are sure to find something blissful and dear, And that, when we ’re far from the lips that we love, We ’ve but to make love to the lips that are near. The heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh! what pleasure where’er we rove To be sure to find something still that is dear; And to know, when far from the lips that we love, We have but to make love to the lips that are near." Amidst the general laughter and applause which followed O’Neil’s song, Madame Marianne’s gentle word of disapproval was lost. The song had restored the jollity which, for a moment, seemed to have left the party. O’Neil now drained the cup to the last drop, turning the crystal vessel upside down to show that it was empty, and whispered a saucy compliment to the bright-eyed girl beside him. At that moment, when the merriment was at its height, when O’Neil stood with the empty cup in his hand, the door opened, and, as if in answer to the toast, John Graham entered the room. He was greeted by a dozen voices as he made his way to Mrs. Deering’s side. Taking her outstretched hand in his own, he dropped upon one knee, and kissed it respectfully. "Dear my lady, I have come to wish you the happiest New Year, and to join in your loving-cup, in your toast to absent friends--" "Always welcome, dear Graham," said the lady, laying her hand upon his head for an instant; "there is always a place for you at our table, but alas--" "You are too late--too late!" It was Barbara who spoke, interrupting her mother brusquely, her voice full of a reproach inexplicable to all but Graham. He looked at her fixedly for a moment, and then O’Neil clapped him on the back, and held up the empty cup. "Too late, old fellow, as Miss Barbara says. Never mind," in a lower key, "I have promised Deering to brew an Irish punch, after the ladies withdraw."