notice her flagging footsteps. He missed her voice singing cheerily as it used to do, but when he asked her why she was not gay, she would whisper softly, " I shall sing again some day, grandpapa, when we are well, both of us quite well." And he would be satisfied. But this state of things could not last. Ismé grew rapidly worse, and when the hot summer days came, she could no longer walk about, but passed all her time lying on a sofa by the open window. A physician was sent for from London, at her grandfather's urgent request, who could not be brought to believe that Ismé was really dangerously ill, but imagined it was their own village doctor who wished to frighten them. Ismé saw at once, by the grave looks of the physician, that there was no hope, and something like a smile lit up her pale young face. She wished to die. One morning her grandfather came into her room, and said, quite gaily, "Ah, Ismé, I have thought of something to cure you. I have sent for Sir Edgar. I wonder I did not think of him before," he continued, musingly; "Charley's friend, my poor boy's friend, will soon cheer you up." The crimson blood rushed to Ismé's cheeks. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "little Ismé, I thought my news would do you good. You are better already." Why did her heart beat so wildly? She fancied she had given him up long ago. She asked her grandfather when he expected him. "Soon, darling, very soon. I have sent my letter to-day, and he will come, I know he will come, for I told him you were ill, and wanted him." Ismé turned away her face. She had not thought it likely they would ever meet again, and only now that it was possible did she realise the intense joy. The heart that has truly loved never forgets, As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets, "If I may see him once," she said, "before I die-only once." But the summer wore away, and he came not. How eagerly she listened to every sound. There is no suffering to be compared to that of deferred hope; hope deferred so long with anxious waiting and watching, that the very heart sickens. "He has forgotten me," she said to herself, every evening as the sun went down; "though I am dying, he will not come." And then she would pray for strength to forget all earthly cares, and to turn her thoughts to the land to which she was hastening, but now the desire to see him had become possible, she could not set it aside; it was present day and night. "Perhaps I shall die first," she thought; "perhaps he will come too late." Her grandfather would sit holding her hand, and talk about what they would do when she was well. He had forgotten all about his letter to Sir Edgar, and his name even never now passed Ismé's lips. VII. THE LIGHT GOES OUT. It was September again, and the tints of autumn had once more deepened on the face of nature, when one evening a carriage drove rapidly up the avenue to Warrington Chase, and stopped before the entrance door. The driver was about to ring, when the occupant sprang out and arrested his hand. He wanted no announcement: it was Sir Edgar. His face was so pale and haggard that his nearest friends would hardly have recognised him, and the hand that undid the door trembled so, that it seemed to belong to one who had lately had some severe illness. The old butler was crossing the hall; he started back on seeing Sir Edgar, and could hardly reply to his agonised question if Ismé were " still alive?" The old man shook his head. but going, sir, going fast." "Yes," he said, "she's alive to-night; An ejaculation of thankfulness burst from Sir Edgar's lips. He turned away, and went softly up the wide staircase. The door of Ismé's room was partly open, and he could see her without her seeing him. She was lying, as usual, on a sofa before the open window, with her long, soft, wavy hair all scattered on the pillow that supported her head, her delicate white hands lying clasped upon her breast, and her violet eyes, with the far-off look of love and heaven we see only in those who are nearing the golden gates, resting wearily on the sprays of clematis, and the crimson leaves of the Virginian creeper, that twined round the balcony. The conviction of sin must come to all sooner or later, and the punishment also. So it was with Sir Edgar. If he could have undone his work at that moment, he would have given up everything he possessed which men consider most worth having; but his sin was to find him out in another way he was to live and gather of the fruits he had sown. That pale, dying face was to haunt him in the world, among crowds, in business, in pleasure, everywhere, a mute reproach to the selfishness that had sacrificed the trust and confidence of a young and happy heart to the gratification of the hour, that had wakened it to life and love, only to leave it to die. Sir Edgar went softly in. Ismé had seen him. A cry of joy burst from her lips, and the next instant he was kneeling beside her, and she had fainted in his arms. For a few minutes he thought she was dying. "Ismé!" he exclaimed, wildly, "speak to me! Only say that you forgive me!" But no answer came. He bent his head over her till his lips were pressed to hers, and as he kissed her, the life seemed to come slowly ebbing back. "Ismé, can you forgive me ?" "I have nothing to forgive," she whispered. "I prayed so that I might see you once again before I-I died, and now "And now," he said, "you must live-you must live for my sake." For a moment the natural instinct of human nature made her wish it also, but only for a moment; the flush died out of her cheek again, and her eyes turned from him. "It is better to die," she said "better for us both." "Not better for me, Ismé, for it is I who have killed you-I who cannot live without you!" She laid her hand upon his lips. " Ismé, do you still love me?" A soft smile stole over her face : "My love has always been the same for you-unchanged and unchangeable!" "God bless you for those words!" "I want to ask you one thing. Why did you not come before? Oh, how I have waited and longed for you!" she said, as a weary sigh escaped her lips. "God knows, Ismé, if I had heard, not one single moment would I have delayed; but I was abroad, and I only got your grandfather's letter four days ago-four days that have seemed to me like long years laden with a thousand curses." "Hush!" said Ismé, " you must not; and I want you to promise me, that when I am gone, you will not grieve for me." He passed his hand down the long, soft, rippling hair, and the remembrance of the sunlight resting on it the day he first saw her flashed across his memory. How full of joy and life she had been then, and now she was lying before him dying. The time would soon come when he might long to see her, and hear the "Never-never!" whispered by the changing years, when she would be to him only a dream-a miserable dream to haunt all his waking hours. " Ismé," he said, "I cannot say I shall not grieve. What is the world -life-to me when you are gone?" And he buried his face upon the pillow. Ismé laid her hand softly on his arm. "If," she whispered, "I had gone away with you, I know now how wrong it would have been, and we could not have continued happy. I might have borne disgrace so long as I had your love; but if you had changed" " I could never have changed, Ismé!" She looked at him with an expression of intense love in her dying violet eyes: "You think so, but you might. And now you are mine-all mine till we meet again." And her arms stole round him, and she laid her head upon his shoulder. "You must not think of me sadly," she whispered. "You must try to be happy. I shall be near you in spirit even when I am gone." He pressed her closer to him : "Would, Ismé, we could die together!" She did not answer, but he could hear the beatings of her heart, and the daylight seemed suddenly to fade out, and the darkness came creeping on. He laid her back upon the pillows, and closed the windows; then once more he knelt beside her, but she seemed to sleep. He thought presently he caught the faint murmur of a prayer, and fancied that she whispered his name, but her eyes were closed, and she seemed unconscious of his presence. He gave one long last farewell look, and the nurse and doctor glided into the room. They said she was exhausted, and must have rest-perfect rest-so he was obliged to leave her; he had no right to keep him there. They promised he should see her early in the morning, and so he left her and went down to her grandfather. How the broken old man's wan face touched his heart; but he could give him no comfort-he felt nonethere was none. Sir Edgar wandered about all the long night hours, and as early morning dawned he found himself standing beneath Ismé's window. A brilliant sun was rising in the eastern horizon, the birds were twittering with a thousand songs of love, the air was heavily laden with the sweet perfumes of the opening flowers, all creation was waking back to life-all but one. A stealthy hand appeared at Ismé's window and drew down the blind, and Sir Edgar knew that she was dead. He Years passed on, and Sir Edgar was spoken of as a rising man. devoted his time to politics and reading. He was at the head of all institutions for the amelioration of the sufferings of his fellow-creatures that required energy and perseverance; he never spared himself any trouble, but he strove vainly to forget in a life of action the sorrows of the past. He was courteous to all women, but made friends with none. Lady Alicia still sat at the head of his table, but they went their separate ways, so that there was nothing to rise up between him and his dead love. Some years after Ismé's death, a strange longing to see the spot of so much mingled sorrow and joy took possession of him, and he again went down to Warrington Chase. It was evening when he arrived, the anniversary of that September day on which he had first met Ismé. He did not go to the house, but stole round by the gardens where none could see him. The drawing-room windows were opened, as they had been that very night, with the light burning inside, and the old squire sitting on a chair just in front. Sir Edgar almost expected to see Ismé herself in her white dress, holding up a warning finger as she pointed over Charlie's wood. The waters of the calm silver lake went gliding on just as they had done then; nothing outwardly seemed changed, but Ismé was dead, and that old man was alone, now broken down and childless, asking for her, and wondering why she never came, with the garrulous fretfulness of imbecility. Sir Edgarturned away, and a wail of anguish burst from his lips. Was this also his doing? He went swiftly on, and crossed the lawn in the direction of the churchyard. The pale moonbeams shone among the gravestones, and seemed to linger over one cross of pure white marble, on which was engraved a name dearer to him than aught else the world could give. He threw himself on the grass beside it, and the remembrance of Ismé came fresh upon him as he had seen her last, with her hands folded on her breast, the fairest white flowers laid tenderly upon her, she fairest of them all, with a look of serene repose never more to be broken by earthly sorrow. Surely the consequence of sin had brought its own retribution. She was dead, but he lived to suffer. 89 A PLEASANT SUNDAY IN TIPPERARY. BY MRS. ALFRED M. MUNSTER. "AN old song will buy it," said my husband; "it is perfectly ridiculous; splendid fishing and shooting, land that only needs capital to make it pay tenfold, and a very tolerable house. Of course it needs modernising, but that can soon be done. What do you say, Mary ?" " I don't like Ireland, and I don't like change." "Ireland is like a certain potentate, not half so bad as it is painted. And change is absolutely necessary for us both, not a partial or temporary change, but one thorough and permanent." "Change will do us no good," I answered, moodily. "It shall, it must-at least, we will try." " I have no energy or hope left. Men are so different; they get over everything in time." "Ah, Mary, you are unjust. In one sense I shall never 'get over' our grief, but it is unwise and ungrateful to lie down supinely, and make no effort to enjoy the blessings we have left. We have health, abundant means for enjoyment and charity, and we have each other still. Am I not better to thee than ten sons?" Yes, I knew it, but our two boys, our only children, had met their deaths by drowning some ten months before the above conversation, and I was still utterly prostrate from the blow. I opposed my husband's wish to settle in Ireland with a kind of passive resistance, but the affair ended in his purchasing Tullylinch, an estate situated in the very heart of notorious Tipperary, and in the autumn of the following year we were settled there. The house, improved by large plate-glass windows, which admitted abundant light and air, was thoroughly repaired and renovated before I saw it-a large, rambling, old-fashioned dwelling, standing in the midst of a beautifully undulating and well-planted lawn, abounding in magnificent hawthorns. On one side of this lawn, and divided from it by a thick and high beech hedge, studded at intervals by lime-trees, lay our kitchen-gardens and orchards, and on the other side was what remained of an oak wood, almost impervious to human feet from the dense undergrowth of brambles; beyond wood and gardens were meadow and corn-lands; and still beyond, miles of bare brown moorland, stretching away to the foot of a range of blue hills which bounded the horizon. Almost in spite of myself the totally new scenes and occupations around me took my thoughts from my brooding sorrow. As for my husband, he revelled in farming experiments, and seemed to take his stand on the principle of having a machine for doing everything hitherto done by human labour. Nevertheless, there was so much to be done on our estate, and so many labourers were needed by us, that our arrival was a cause of rejoicing to the peasantry in our neighbourhood; and although I have not at all popular manners, I soon became as great a favourite as "the masther." "Indeed, the three years which succeeded our arrival in Ireland were years to break down the barriers of reserve between rich and poor, and bring them together on the common ground of human |