church, at least since its rector, the Blessed John Hailes,* won the crown of martyrdom in 1535, if we except the troublous years of Mary Tudor's reign. " How was the die cast? How came the hymeneal Rubicon to be forded thus? Was it, as we wrote in our Latin exercises, "by counsel or by chance"? I know not. Was Old Tim misled, as was the late Mr. Matt Harris, M.P., of sterling memory, when he went to 'Mass" at St. Alban's, High Holborn on Sunday, and would have sat the simulated ceremony out, had not his convert companion, Joseph Biggar, almost dragged him out at the Gospel, saying, "Matt, I'm horrified that a born. Catholic like you can't tell the difference between 'Dominus vobiscum' and 'The Lord be with you,' as that parson in the vestments up there is bawling?" Once again, I do not know and "not making you a short answer," as the old people used to say, I do not very much care. For Old Tim and Old Joanie had their knot tied in the temple of Rimmon as inevitably as they bowed their heads in it when one of the neighbours died, and soon afterwards old Father Wareing was gathered to his fathers, and his successor, young Father Weld, put everything right and blessed the pair of them. But if you will be contented with a surmise, you may read mine for what it is worth. I think that this "Sassenach" marriage was stage-managed from start to finish by well-meaning Sassenachs of our village. And for this reason, with which I may conclude my history of the strange wooing and stranger wedding of Tim and Joanie Regan, whose quaint little figures, however, must sometimes flit through these pages again, if I am spared to continue this record of our exiles. If English villagers had not piloted Old Tim and Old Joanie through the mysteries of an Anglican wedding, how would the following anecdote of the ceremony be current among them? Old Tim, says their tradition, came hot-foot from work in the blue coat, yellow knee-breeches and prismatic hose in which we have seen him. Old Joanie met him "amid the cold Hic Jacets of the dead" in the pathetically pretty churchyard, and followed so close behind him as he advanced to the altar that the Vicar did not see her enter. When Old Tim halted, facing *With him suffered the Blessed Richard Reynolds, chaplain of the Brigittine Monastery in the same parish. No other village of our size gave one secular priest to the scaffold in Henry VIII's first persecution. Surely our having two priest-martyrs has much to do with the exceptionally kind treatment meted out by the villagers to their Catholic invaders of the '48-50. The parish church became Catholic again for a space, of course, under Queen Mary, and has to this day a sepulchral cross erected by that well-meaning, unhappy lady, begging prayers for a nun-friend of hers, of the order to which B. Richard Reynolds ministered. the parson, Old Joanie halted too, symmetrically in his rear. cally. Where is the bride ?" said the Vicar. Pehind the small of my pack," observed Old Tim, laconi The bride tip-toed into view, like a little child playing bopeep, and was soon entitled to call herself Mrs. Regan, according to the laws and statutes of this realm, in no recorded case, perhaps, more strangely made and provided. JOHN HANNON. THE PLAINT OF AGE ACROSS the silent years I hear your voice, I scarce had known 'twas you who called afar, I girt my armour on, and forth I went Out on the rugged way that ends in night, Upon the shapeless mass that men call life, Yet do I hope that ere my sands be run Those hands shall strike a still diviner chord, Yea, out of travail is the purest gold Of our base natures brought into the light; WILLIAM O'NEILL. TERENCE O'NEILL'S HEIRESS A STORY CHAPTER XVII THE night was dark, chill and damp. Since sunset, a heavy drizzle of rain had been steadily falling, and the landscape looked sadly gloomy and desolate, just visible under the black clouds, in which not the faintest break nor one shining star gave promise of better things on the morrow. Across the lonely plain, in the darkness, rode a solitary horseman. He went at a slow and cautious pace, distinguishing little in the dreary stretch of country over which he was travelling. As he peered anxiously onwards, his face was almost as black as the sky, his eyes as dull and as heavy as the darkest cloud. He looked completely done up and weary. His clothes were shabby and worn; his beard shaggy, his hair long and unkempt. The pony under him was going lame, and seemed more weary, if possible, than his rider, as he staggered, slipped, and stumbled along through the rain. " 'Twas a wild goose chase," the man muttered to himself. "And yet the temptation was great. But I'll never find him -or it. I'll die of starvation-lie here, unburied and unmissed, till my bones are bleached by the sun; and no news of my death will ever reach home. Flora will wait and watch-dream of the gold. Ah! I see a light, gleaming through the mist and the rain. If I could reach it-O God! if I could. But Bobs is spent, and I" A dizziness came over him; he, clinging to the saddle, sat up, and, drawing a deep breath, was able to steady himself and urge the pony to a somewhat faster pace. But it was only for a moment. He reeled upon his seat, everything went round, he fell prone upon the horse's neck, and knew no more. Heedless of his rider's collapse, without appearing to notice that he was gone, Bobs shambled on, going steadily towards the light, which his master had hailed with such eagerness. On he went, heavily and slowly, till, at last, utterly done, and exhausted, he sank upon the ground, just in front of a low wooden hut, from whose windows the gleam of a bright lamp streamed out over the dark grass. At the noise of his fall a dog barked loudly and angrily within the little dwelling, and a man, carrying a revolver in one hand, a lantern in the other, threw open the door, and peered out into the darkness. "Steady, Tike, old man," he said, addressing the dog. "Not too much noise. Quiet and cautious is the thing. Who knows what may be behind that thud? Ah! a horse ”— catching sight of poor prostrate Bobs-" and wearing a saddle and bridle. That means a rider. But where is he? Go seek, Tike. Good dog, go seek. Poor creature, you are done. But you must lie there till we find tidings of your master." And holding the lantern high above his head, he went after Tike, who, his nose to the ground, and sniffing audibly, scampered swiftly on before. A whine and a howl soon announced that Tike had come upon the unfortunate rider, and running forward, the man saw him by the light of his lantern, lying face downwards upon the wet, muddy grass. "Poor devil!" turning him over, and putting his ear quickly to his mouth. "No-he's not dead. There's life in him yet. Maybe he's not so bad as he seems. Wonder what brought him this way? Well, no one could leave a dog out here, to-night. So in he must come. But how?" measuring the prostrate form with his eyes. "He's a big chap. By Jove! It's a risk to take him in at all. What if he gets well? He'd make pieces of me, if so inclined, once he gets strong and well. No matterI've not so far forgotten my Christian teaching as to leave a poor beggar to perish." The man on the grass drew a deep breath, and sighing heavily opened his eyes and stared hard at the tall, slight figure bending over him. "Where am I?" he said feebly. "And who are you?" The other laughed. "By Jove, you want all the information," he answered, turning the light of the lantern full on the man's face. "But before I tell you where you are and who I am, I'd like to know where you come from, and where you were thinking of going and what you meant to do when you got there ?" "I came from England to Sydney, and was pushing along in hopes of finding gold. 'Tis a common story, I suppose. But the man who sold me the pony swore I'd find it, if I had courage and patience." "The cunning ass. Wanted to sell his pony." "Perhaps. My name is Austin Gibbons. But I'm faint" -moaning and trying to raise himself" I'm faint with cold and hunger. I fear I'm dying." "Not you. Drink this," holding a flask to his lips. "It will revive you. Then, when you're better, you must come in to my place and have food." "You are good," drinking the brandy eagerly. "A real good Samaritan." "I could not well let you die at my very door. You're a stranger to me, but I'm willing to help you all I can. So," putting his arm round him, and helping him to his feet, “come into my shanty. Tike and I are alone there." 66 "I-I thank you," Gibbons said in a weak and choking voice, as, leaning heavily on the man, he staggered along into the hut. You see I'm all but done. And if I die to-night, write to my wife and tell her. She is now at Rathkieran, Co. Wicklow, Ireland." 46 "Rathkieran, did you say?" with a start of surprise. 'Why, man, that's the home of the O'Neills. The O'Neills of Rathkieran are fine people." "Aye, so I've heard. But they've fallen on bad times, and are all gone "Gone!" The veins stood out upon the man's brow, his face worked in an agony of grief. "My God! All? The old home desolate-Oh! Gibbons, can this be true?" "John O'Neill, the last of his race in Ireland, had to leave his home in debt and difficulty. He could not sell, but in order to live had to let the old place. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Arrowsmith, lives there now, with her younger children.” The inmate of the lonely hut sank into a chair and uttered a deep groan. "All gone but John. should go was natural. That the old man, God rest his soul, But William and Owen and Mollyto think of them all gone. And Magdalen-Mrs. Tiernan— what of her? Is she living?" he asked, starting up suddenly. The stranger turned his head wearily from side to side. "I think-yes, I'm sure she lives," he murmured. “I've heard Flora speak of her-and another O'Neill called Elizabeth a " "Poor Pat's girl. child." Oh! don't tell me she's dead, poor "She's not dead. But according to Flora's last letter, which reached me when I had been a few days in Sydney, she's in trouble. My mother-in-law has lost a diamond cross, and this girl, knowing her secret drawer, is suspected by most people." "A cruel lie." He brought his clenched fist down heavily upon the wooden table. "No O'Neill would stoop to theft." "That may be. I daresay you're right. But things are against her, terribly against her. But how well you know these |