even answering at random or looking at him. the speech the man was making?

What to her was

He understood it all, and guessed why the door had been opened so quickly to him; and feeling pity for the pain he had unwittingly caused, he stammered out an excuse.

"Just so: he never ought to have disturbed her-her in particular."

"I!" ejaculated Gaud quickly, "why should I not be disturbed particularly, Fantec ?»

Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish to appear in despair before others. Besides, she pitied him now; she dressed to accompany him, and found the strength to go and see to his little child.

At four o'clock in the morning, when she returned to throw herself on the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out. But that moment of excessive joy had left an impression on her mind, which in spite of all was permanent; she awoke soon with a shudder, rising a little and partially recollecting-she knew not what. News had come to her about her Yann. In the midst of her confusion of ideas, she sought rapidly in her mind what it could be; but there was nothing save Fantec's interruption.

For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss, nothing changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.

Yet in that short, hopeful moment, she had felt him so near to her that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto her, what is called a foretoken (pressigne) in Breton land; and she listened still more attentively to the steps outside, trusting that some one might come to her to speak of him.

Just as the day broke, Yann's father entered. He took off his cap, and pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in. curls like Yann's, and sat down by Gaud's bedside.

His heart ached heavily too; for Yann, his tall, handsome Yann, was his first-born, his favorite and his pride: but he did not despair yet. He comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affectionate way. To begin with, those who had last returned from Iceland spoke of the increasing dense fogs, which might well have delayed the vessel; and then too an idea struck him,-they might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on their homeward course, whence letters were so long in traveling. This had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own poor dead and gone mother had had a mass said for his soul.

The Léopoldine was such a good boat,-next to new,- and her crew were such able-bodied seamen.

Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head: the distress of her granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason. She tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the faded portrait of Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black bead-work. Ever since the sea had robbed her of her own last offspring, she believed no longer in safe returns; she only prayed through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her heart.

But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her large sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old sire, who so much resembled her beloved one: merely to have him near her was like a hostage against death having taken the younger Gaos; and she felt reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her tears fell softly and silently, and she repeated again her passionate prayers to the "Star of the Sea."

A delay out at those islands to repair damages was a very likely event. She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed as if she might fairly expect him. All then was not lost, if a seaman, his own father, did not yet despair. And for a few days. she resumed looking out for him again.

Autumn at last arrived,-a late autumn too,- its gloomy evenings making all things appear dark in the old cottage; and all the land looked sombre too.

The very daylight seemed a sort of twilight; immeasurable clouds, passing slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at broad noon. The wind blew constantly with the sound of a great cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane, despairing dirges; at other times the noise came close to the door, like the howling of wild beasts.

She had grown pale,- aye, blanched,- and bent more than ever; as if old age had already touched her with its featherless wing. Often did she finger the wedding clothes of her Yann, folding them and unfolding them again and again like some. maniac,- especially one of his blue woolen jerseys which still had preserved his shape: when she threw it gently on the table, it fell with the shoulders and chest well defined; so she placed it by itself in a shelf of their wardrobe, and left it there, so that it might forever rest unaltered.

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Every night the cold mists sank upon the land, as she gazed over the depressing heath through her little window, and watched the thin puffs of white smoke arise from the chimneys of other cottages scattered here and there on all sides. There the husbands had returned, like wandering birds driven home by the frost. Before their blazing hearths the evenings passed, cozy and warm; for the springtime of love had begun again in this land of North Sea fishermen.

Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might perhaps have lingered, she was buoyed up by a kind hope, and expected him home any day.

*

But he never returned. One August night, out off gloomy Iceland, mingled with the furious clamor of the sea, his wedding with the sea was performed. It had been his nurse; it had rocked him in his babyhood and had afterwards made him big and strong; then, in his superb manhood, it had taken him back again for itself alone. Profoundest mystery had surrounded this unhallowed union. While it went on, dark curtains hung palllike over it as if to conceal the ceremony, and the ghoul howled in an awful, deafening voice to stifle his cries. He, thinking of Gaud, his sole, darling wife, had battled with giant strength against this deathly rival, until he at last surrendered, with a deep death-cry like the roar of a dying bull, through a mouth already filled with water; and his arms were stretched apart and stiffened forever.

All those he had invited in days of old were present at his wedding. All except Sylvestre, who had gone to sleep in the enchanted gardens far, far away, at the other side of the earth.

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SAMUEL LOVER

(1797-1868)

HE lovable Irishman who wrote The Low-Backed Car,' 'The Irish Post-Boy,' and 'Widow Machree,' was, as Renan said, kissed by a fairy at his birth. He had that indomitable joyousness of spirit which neither stress of circumstances, nor personal sorrows, nor long-continued illness could abate. Besides this charming gayety, the generous fairy godmother bestowed on him the most various talents. He was a miniature-painter, a marine-painter, a clever etcher in the days when good etching was little practiced, a caricaturist, a composer, an accomplished singer, a novelist, and a dramatist. And with all this versatility, he possessed an immense capacity for hard work.

SAMUEL LOVER

He was born in 1797, in Dublin, where his father was a comfortable stock-broker. From his mother, whom he worshiped, he inherited his musical talents, his sensitive temperament, and his upright character. She died when he was twelve years old, but her influence never left him.

Stockbroker Lover wished to make a good business man of his clever son; who however, if he consented to add columns of figures and to correct stock lists by day, consoled himself with the practice of music and painting by night. The disgusted father sent him off to a London business house of the Gradgrind order, which had had much success in uprooting any vagrant flowers of fancy from the minds of its apprentices. But in this instance the experiment failed. At the age of seventeen, young Lover resolved to turn his back forever on day-book and ledger and set up as an artist, although he had yet to learn his craft.

He had saved a little money; he found music-copying and occasional sketching to do; and after three frugal years of close study, he exhibited some excellent miniatures and asked for patronage. Before the invention of the daguerreotype and the photograph, every "genteel" household had its collection of portraits on ivory; and the young painter made his way at once, on the score of being a capital good fellow. He could sing to his own accompaniment songs of

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his own composing; he could draw caricatures of an entire dinnercompany; he could recite in the richest brogue, Irish stories of his own writing: and every social assemblage welcomed him.

In 1832 he had the good fortune to paint an admirable miniature of Paganini, which the best critics pronounced a study worthy of Gerard Dow. The admiration it excited in London led in time to his removal thither. His gift for friendship soon attracted to his fireside clever personages like Talfourd, Campbell, Jerrold, Mahony, Barham, Mrs. Jamieson, Allan Cunningham, Lady Blessington, Sydney Smith, Maclise, and Wilkie. Moore was already an old friend. The beautiful Malibran and the clever Madame Vestris became his patrons, and his work was soon the fashion.

He had already published-illustrated by his own etchings-a successful series of Irish sketches, containing that delightful absurdity 'The Gridiron,' and 'Paddy the Piper.' After settling in London he brought out a second volume of the 'Legends and Tales,' and became a contributor to the new Bentley's Miscellany. His three-volume novel of Rory O'More' appeared in 1836. Of the title character Mahony wrote: "Hearty, honest, comic, sensible, tender, faithful, and courageous, Rory is the true ideal of the Irish peasant,-the humble hero who embodies so much of the best of the national character, and almost lifts simple emotion to the same height as ripened mind." This novel Lover dramatized with immense success; which encouraged him to write 'The White Horse of the Peppers,' three or four other plays, two or three operettas for Madame Vestris, and both the words and music of 11 Paddy Whack in Italia,' a capital whimsicality. His portrait was included in Maclise's Gallery of Celebrities'; and Blackwood "discovered" him as "a new poet who is also musician, painter, and novelist, and therefore quadruply worth wondering at."

It was his clever countrywoman, Lady Morgan, who first prompted him to the writing of Irish songs. His 'Rory O'More' took the general fancy. To its strains the Queen at her coronation was escorted to Buckingham Palace. To its strains the peasant baby in its box cradle fell asleep. To its strains Phelim O'Shea footed the reel at Limerick Fair, and the ladies at Dublin Castle trod their quadrille.

'Molly Carew,' a better piece of work, would doubtless have attracted equal favor, had not the music been more difficult. Widow Machree,' written for the whimsical tale of 'Handy Andy,' is full of Irish character. 'What Will Ye Do, Love?' written also for 'Handy Andy,' fairly sings itself; and 'How to Ask and Have' is as pretty a piece of coquetry as any gray-eyed and barefooted beauty ever devised. 'The Road of Life,' which is the song of the Irish post-boy, was Lover's own favorite, because of its note of unobtrusive pathos. In another group are included the laughing 'Low-Backed Car,' 'The Girl I Left Behind Me,' 'Mary of Tipperary,' 'Molly Bawn,' and 'The

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