Mr. Adair hurried out of the house, and Father Mac, after renewing some instructions he had already given Mrs. Tuohy, followed him. He said grimly upon overtaking him, 'Death was before you with his bailiff, Mr. Adair; and you saw what it was starvation. She has died of nothing else.'

'Then she chose to die of it. workhouse.'

She might have gone into the

'But, as you say, she preferred starvation,' Father Mac replied, in a tone which irritated the agent.

'It's the proper place for paupers, and I mean to clear the estate of them. Such hovels are a perfect disgrace.'

'To whom?'

6 To whom? To them.'

Come, come, Mr. Adair, you know better. Suppose their rack rents allowed them to save, and suppose they spent their savings on their cabins, would you, or would you not, raise their rents in proportion, or out of proportion, to every improvement? You know perfectly well it's what you would do, and what you did do in Castlefierney. Their hovels are a disgrace, but they are not a disgrace to them.'

We ought to explain that Mr. Adair's principal was an absentee, and that there's some peculiarity in the Irish character -perhaps lack of generosity-which prevents an Irish tenant from doing what, for instance, a Yorkshire tenant would be so rejoiced to do, putting every farthing of his savings into the pocket of a landlord who so scorns him and his country as to live altogether abroad. This distinctively Irish baseness landlords naturally resented; and, as land was the sole industry of the country, and could be and was run up to famine prices, they had the power to make their resentment felt.

That land should be the sole industry of the country was due, no doubt, to the lack of energy and enterprise in the people. It is true that when in 1666 the export of cattle from Ireland was prohibited by Act of Parliament in the interests of the English landlords, the people took so successfully to the manufacture of wool that this trade in turn had to be strangled in the interests of English manufacturers by an Act passed in 1699 prohibiting the export from Ireland of all goods made or mixed with wool; again, when, upon the extinction of the woollen trade, they took to the manufacture of linen, they succeeded so well that legislation had to step in once more, in English interests, to hamper and harass to death the last industry left to them. It is true, we repeat, that the Irish must have had some energy and enterprise and some commercial aptitude, to provoke so forbearing a people as

the English into legislative repression of their presumption; yet such evidence weighs light against the universal testimony of English writers, orators, and statesmen that Ireland is hopelessly pauperised solely through the laziness, improvidence, incompetence, and general 'cussedness '-to use an expressive Americanism -of her people. The Irish out of Ireland, it is admitted, are the hardest-working people in all the world, and they get somehow to the front in France, Spain, America, and even in the colonies of England; but, in Ireland itself, there's something in the climate of the country which, in spite of its enjoyment for centuries of all the blessings of British government, tends to produce in its people a thriftlessness, turbulence, and incapacity which makes them the byword of every English orator and author.

The writer remembers well a conversation he had once with a man whose legs had been crushed off in the employ of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Company, through the carelessness of another of its servants.

'But will the company do nothing for you?'

'Nowt.'

'Surely they could find some kind of job you could do?"

Nay, aw axed t' foreman, an' he nobbut laughed at me. He said aw mun goa into t' Bastile,' as they could mak' nowt nah on me but firewood,' glancing down at his wooden legs.

I have often been reminded of that foreman's genial jest by English speeches, articles, and conversations upon the unfitness of the Irish for trade, commerce, or self-government.

But, to return to Father Mac. Having shot his bolt, he turned his back abruptly upon the stupified agent and walked off without another word, for he had come so far out of his way to speak his mind. He spoke it thus freely and even fiercely because he was, perhaps, as wroth with himself as with the agent. He felt as though the blood of this poor woman was on his hands. He had, it is true, helped the wretched household over and over again, and there were above a score of such households in his cure, among which he distributed what he could spare; still he could. and would certainly have done more for the Moronys, if he had known the extremity of their destitution. But he had not known. of it, for they had proudly concealed it as well and as long as they could. For, paradoxical as it may sound in English ears, there is no people naturally less given to parade their poverty than the Irish. In a book about London beggars just published, written by a Scotchman thoroughly well acquainted with the London poor, we read: Of all people, the poor Irish are the most anxious to gain

''Bastile,' Yorkshire for workhouse.'

employment, and are truly valuable examples of industry.' Now at the bottom of this Irish eagerness for work is a proud abhorrence of pauperism; and it was pride of this kind which made the Moronys hide the extremity of their destitution even from their priest. Therefore, Father Mac had really nothing to accuse himself of, if he had looked at the matter fairly. But he was in no mood to look fairly at the matter after the harrowing scene he had just witnessed. Of course his remorse took the form of eagerness to do all he could now for the family.

Upon leaving Mr. Adair he hurried to the nearest telegraph office to send a telegram to the local secretary of the Land League, urging him to move at once for poor Pat Morony's release on the grounds of the death of his wife through starvation and of his child by an accident, for Father Mac had not yet heard of Mick's safety. The local Secretary telegraphed these particulars on the authority of Father Mac, the best known and most respected supporter of the League in his district, to the head office in Dublin, and here Maurice heard them next day. Quitting Springthorpe two days after Miles and Norah, he had stayed a few hours in Dublin on political business which brought him to the head office of the League. Here, as we say, he heard of the Morony case, and was empowered to give the family what relief he thought proper, pending the result of the application for Pat's release. Maurice accepted the commission with the utmost eagerness. Why? Because he had resolved never to see Norah more!

During the long hours in which he had lain alone and in pain in the hotel at Springthorpe he had reviewed her conduct a thousand times over without finding a single loophole of escape from the certainty that she loved Reid Summers. And, in truth, it was impossible for him to come to any other conclusion with such overwhelming evidence in its favour. Therefore, he had resolved manfully to break his chains and quit Ireland without seeing her. He would telegraph to Miles to meet him and bid him good-bye at Queenstown, and he would make straight from his home for that port. And this manful resolve made him grasp eagerly at a commission which might give him one more chance of seeing her! He would not go to Clonard; of course not. But he might meet her accidentally in the neighbourhood!

(To be continued.)

BELGRAVIA.

SEPTEMBER 1884.

The Lover's Creed.

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. CASHEL HOEY.

One, and one only, is the Lover's Creed.'-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CHAPTER XXII. '

THE STORY OF JACK.

N simple words, with steadfast earnestness, but with no depreca

father. The Squire did not interrupt him by a word. He shifted his position, and, putting his elbow on the table, shaded his eyes with his left hand, concealing the upper part of his face from view. The right hand, resting on his knee, closed and opened two or three times, but there was no other indication of how he was taking the revelation.

That is my story, father,' said Jack, in conclusion. The error of judgment that led me to conceal the truth from you has had heavy consequences. I hope you know and believe that it was only an error of judgment.'

His blue eyes looked out of the hollows into which they had retreated, sadly indeed, but as frankly as ever, and his worn face bore a lofty expression. His father saw these things clearly, when at length he removed his hand, and glanced at the much-changed figure before him.

'I always believe whatever you say,' answered the Squire, evidently speaking with some difficulty. Thank God, I have never had a cause or an excuse for doubting your word. I am more

VOL, LIV. NO. CCXV.

S

than ever glad and proud of that, Jack, for this is a shock to me, and a grief, for more reasons than one.'

He rose, and paced the room, but without the least appearance of irritation.

A shock in the sense of finding that, for any reason, a matter of such importance to us was concealed from you; that is what you mean, isn't it?' asked Jack anxiously, and turning a shade more pale. I know this must be so, but I think you will overlook it, when you fully consider all that had happened, and was happening, when I left England, and what my plan for telling you about this was. But I wish you could, without misleading me, refrain from saying that what I have just told you is a grief to you.'

The Squire paused, leaned both his hands upon the table, and, regarding Jack with a piercing look which was a rare but striking expression of his face, said :

'Did your plan for telling me in the future include any notion of relinquishing your intention, in case you found it as distasteful to me as I think you expected it would be?'

'No, father, it did not. I have said what I wanted to say feebly and insufficiently if I have not made you feel that Mavis Wynn is all the world to me. My great hope was to induce you to regard her with favour; to see her as she is; a woman whom any man might be proud to win, let his position and his merits surpass mine never so much; but if you could not so regard her, I then meant to tell you honestly that our engagement was not conditional on even that.'

'Yet she-Miss Wynn-wished to make some such condition, you have told me.'

"Yes, she did. She was very sensitive to your possible objections, though she knows so little of the world, and thinks only of me. I don't say this out of conceit, father; it is the truth. I have won the greatest of prizes, a perfect love. She is satisfied to share my lot, be it what it may; but to tell you all the truth, she thought more of you in the matter than I did.'

The Squire was deeply impressed by Jack's tone. Sensible as he had previously been of the severance there was between himself, leading his obscure and studious life, and the young man who had seen war, and lived amid the making of history, he now discovered a further change. Here was a new insight into Jack's character. Amid the thronging impressions of the moment, mingling with the dread of anything that could injure his son, and retard his recovery, and the sharp struggle in his own mind with long-standing ideas, opinions, even prejudices, there also