could be prevailed on to forgive an injury, or, at least, any act that he conceived to be such, a weakness or a vice which was the means of all his angelic and lovely daughter's calamities. Reilly, though full of fervor and enthusiasm, was yet by no means deficient in strong sense. On his way home he began to ask himself in what this overwhelming passion for _Cooleen Bawn_ must end. His religion, he was well aware, placed an impassable gulf between them. Was it then generous or honorable in him to abuse the confidence and hospitality of her father by engaging the affections of a daughter, on whose welfare his whole happiness was placed, and to whom, moreover, he could not, without committing an act of apostasy that he abhorred, ever be united as a husband? Reason and prudence, moreover, suggested to him the danger of his position, as well as the ungenerous nature of his conduct to the grateful and trusting father. But, away with reason and prudence--away with everything but love. The rapture of his heart triumphed over every argument; and, come weal or woe, he resolved to win the far-famed “Star of Connaught,” another epithet which she derived from her wonderful and extraordinary beauty. On approaching his own house he met a woman named Mary Mahon, whose character of a fortune-teller was extraordinary in the country, and whose predictions, come from what source they might, had gained her a reputation which filled the common mind with awe and fear. “Well, Mary,” said he, “what news from futurity? And, by the way, where is futurity? Because if you don't know,” he proceeded, laughing, “I think I could tell you.” “Well,” replied Mary, “let me hear it. Where is it, Mr. Reilly?” “Why,” he replied, “just at the point of your own nose, Mary, and you must admit it is not a very long one; pure Milesian, Mary; a good deal of the saddle in its shape.” The woman stood and looked at him for a few moments. “My nose may be short,” she replied, “but shorter will be the course of your happiness.” “Well, Mary,” he said, “I think as regards my happiness that you know as little of it as I do myself. If you tell me any thing that has passed, I may give you some credit for the future, but not otherwise.” “Do you wish to have your fortune tould, then,” she asked, “upon them terms?” “Come, then, I don't care if I do. What has happened me, for instance, within the last forty-eight hours?” “That has happened you within the last forty-eight hours that will make her you love the pity of the world before her time. I see how it will happen, for the complaint I speak of is in the family. A living death she will have, and you yourself during the same time will have little less.” “But what has happened me, Mary?” “I needn't tell you--you know--it. A proud heart, and a joyful heart, and a lovin' heart, you carry now, but it will be a broken heart before long.” “Why, Mary, this is an evil prophecy; have you nothing good to foretell?”