"Nora would," said Connor ;-" but maybe she was left behind. Maybe she did n't come. I somehow think she did n't." At the name of Nora the captain started. In a moment he asked:

"What is your name?"

"Pat Connor," said the man.

"And your wife's name was Nora?"

"That's her name, and the boy with her is Jamesy, yer honor," said Connor.

The captain looked at Connor's friends; they looked at the captain. Then he said huskily: "Sit down, my man; I've got something to tell you."

"She's left behind," said Connor.
"She sailed with us," said the captain.
"Where is she?" asked Connor.

The captain made no answer.

'My man," he said, "we all have our trials; God sends them. Yes-Nora started with us.'

Connor said nothing. He was looking at the captain, now, white to his lips.

"It's been a sickly season," said the captain; "we have had illness on board-the cholera. You know that."

"I did n't. I can't read; they kept it from me," said Connor.

"We did n't want to frighten him," said one, in a half whisper.

"You know how long we lay at quarantine?" "The ship I came in did that," said Connor. "Did ye say Nora went ashore? Ought I to be looking for her, captain?"

66

Many died, many children," went on the captain. "When we were half way here your boy was taken sick.” "Jamesy," gasped Connor.

"His mother watched him night and day," said the captain, “and we did all we could, but at last he died; only one of many. There were five buried that day. But it broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the water. "It's his father I think of," said she; "he 's longing to see poor Jamesy."

Connor groaned.

'Keep up if you can, my man," said the captain ; "I wish any one else had it to tell rather than I. That night Nora was taken ill, also, very suddenly; she grew worse fast.

In the morning she called me to her. 'Tell Connor I died thinking of him,' she said, ' and tell him to meet me.' And my man, God help you, she never said anything more—in an hour she was gone."

Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to steady himself; looking at the captain with his eyes dry as two stones. Then he turned to his friends:

"I've got my death, boys," he said, and then dropped to the deck like a log.

They raised him and bore him away. In an hour he was at home on the little bed which had been made ready for Nora, weary with her long voyage. There at last, he opened his eyes. Old Mr. Bawne bent over him; he had been summoned by the news, and the room was full of Connor's fellow workmen.

"Better, Connor?" asked the old man.

"A dale," said Connor. "It's aisy now; I'll be with her soon. And look ye, masther, I've learnt one thing-God is good; He would n't let me bring Nora over to me, but he's takin' me over to her and Jamesy over the river; do n't you see it, and her standin' on the other side to welcome me?”

And with these words Connor stretched out his arms. Perhaps he did see Nora--Heaven only knows—and so died. Anonymous.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor-lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Lord Tennyson.

THE EMPTY NEST.

A home in a quiet country place,

Under the shadow of branches wide;
And a fair young mother with thoughtful face,
Sewing a seam by the window side.

The sunshine stretches across the floor,
The bright motes dance in its golden way,

And in and out, at the open door,

The children run in their busy play.

Guiding her needle with careless skill,

Her fingers fashion the garment white;

But weaving a fabric daintier still,

Her swift thoughts follow the needle's flight.

Her heart lies hushed in her deep content,
Her lips are humming an old love lay;
And still, with its music softly blent,
She hears what the eager children say:

"We found it under the apple-tree,—

A poor little empty yellowbird's nest; See, it is round as a cup could be,

And lined with down from the mother's breast.

“This is a leaf, all withered and dry,

That once was a canopy overhead;

Does n't it almost make you cry

To look at the dear little empty bed?

"All the birdies have flown away;

But birds must fly or they would n't have wings; And the mother knew they would go some day, When she used to cuddle the downy things.

"Do you think she is lonesome? Why, there's a tear! And here is another-that makes two.

Why do you hug us, and look so queer?

If we were birdies we would n't leave you."

Deep in the mother's listening heart
Drops the prattle with sudden sting;
For lips may quiver, and tears may start,

But birds must fly or they would n't have wings.

Emily Huntington Miller.

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.

I'd a dream to-night

As I fell asleep;

Oh! the touching sight

Makes me still to weep:

Of my little lad,

Gone to leave me sad;
Ay, the child I had,
But was not to keep.

As in heaven high,

I my child did seek,
There, in train, came by
Children fair and meek,
Each in lily white,

With a lamp alight;
Each was clear to sight,
But they did not speak.

Then, a little sad,

Came my child in turn,
But the lamp he had,
Oh! it did not burn;
He, to clear my doubt,
Said, half turn'd about,
"Your tears put it out;

Mother, never mourn."
W. Barnes.

EDWARD GRAY.

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way; "And have you lost your heart?" she said; “And are you married yet, Edward Gray?"

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me:
Bitterly weeping, I turned away;
"Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.

"Ellen Adair she loved me well,

Against her father's and mother's will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept,

By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.

"Shy she was, and I thought her cold;

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Filled I was with folly and spite,

When Ellen Adair was dying for me.

'Cruel, cruel the words I said!

Cruelly came they back to-day:

'You 're too slight and fickle,' I said,

To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'

"There I put my face in the grass

Whispered, 'Listen to my despair:

I repent me of all I did;

Speak a little, Ellen Adair!'

"Then I took a pencil and wrote
On the mossy stone, as I lay,
'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair;
And here the heart of Edward Gray!'

"Love may come, and love may go,

And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree;
But I will love no more, no more,
Till Ellen Adair come back to me.