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"I say, Betty, what are you doing? -why don't you bring the rags here to dress my leg?" he said, looking sourly at his wife, after having exchanged a few words with the schoolmaster.

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Be quiet, and have some patience, will you?" answered Mrs. Murphy, bestowing a glance of such bitterness on her shrivelled husband, that the schoolmaster could not help trembling for the happiness of his daughter, who was so soon to take up her residence in the house with a woman who displayed such palpable ill-temper.

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Ay, be quiet-be quiet; its easy for them to be quiet that's not sufferin' -that's not sufferin' the long years that I've been here, and not able to go out and see the fields that I've so often ploughed and sowed, and the blessed corn that God sends us. Is the corn gettin' strong now, Robert? I don't see the field out of that window since the leaves come on the trees -if it was God's will that I'd only get out as I used to do;" the old man's voice softened into a sad resignation as he said the last words.

The schoolmaster spoke soothingly to the sick old man, and strove to encourage him by hopeful words, telling him what a good nurse his future daughter Agnes was; how attentive she was in her own family when sickness came, and how he and the young brothers of Agnes would miss her. The old man listened, and seemed pleased.

"Ay-well-maybe she will have the kind hand about me, the creature. I've thought sometimes, when I was lying here, and me hoarse with calling somebody, if it was only to get me a drink of water, that if I had a daughter, she wouldn't be cross with the poor, old, sick father."

As he spoke, a gleaming of hope came beautifully over the miserable wrinkles of his face, and smiles played around the corners of his withered lips.

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Well, if she does be the kind darlin' I hear you say, it 'ill be good of Providence to send her here to take care of the old man. Robert there attends me kindly enough sometimes; but a daughter-ay, a daughter, it stands to reason, should know best how to take care of a sick old man;" he glanced to his son as he spoke, as if wishing to hear his sentiments concerning the coming daughter-in-law.

"Agnes will be kind, very kind to Robert Murphy said. you, father-Agnes has a kind heart," He was a young man of pleasing appearance, with an air something above his condition; his figure was rather under the middle size, but well formed; his face was handsome, though a little ef feminate and unexpressive; an air of extreme self-satisfaction was visible in his soft blue eyes; his whole countenance shewed that he had never in his existence either thought or felt deeply. At times he exhibited indications of stronger passions; but his course of life had been smooth and monotonous, and if any powerful energies were within him, they still remained slumbering in the depths of his soul. He believed that he loved his bride elect; he had certainly never loved anything else excepting himself so well; she had flattered his ruling passion-vanity-by accepting suitors, as elegible as himself; thereof him in preference to some other fore, he fancied he loved her; he was not in the habit of examining deeply tisfied. his own feelings and so rested sa

"There are a few things I would like to mention," said the schoolmaster looking around the kitchen, and gazing into an open door which led to a sitting room. "You know my Agnes is a girl of taste-she likes to see things so nice and neat-she has made our little parlour at home so pretty, and all at but a trifling expense."

Mrs. Murphy sneered audibly at this. The old man moved restlessly on his chair, and his eyes, with a dising look, turned towards his wife, as satisfied, and at the same time enquirif to discover her sentiments on this point.

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You have no notion," continued the schoolmaster, "how saving Agnes is on all points, though she has such a taste for seeing things nice about her -why I am sure she saved the price of a bit of carpet, and the chintz window-curtains that I bought for our little parlour; yes, she saved it out of her own dress, every farthing of it, I do think."

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humph, indeed," reiterated Mrs. Carpets and window-curtains!Murphy.

"Why it doesn't cost much, indeed,” said the schoolmaster beseechingly,

"and your parlour there, when you get a piece of carpet on it, and when Agnes brings her little baskets, and things are put all to rights-why you'll be delighted; yourselves will have the comfort of it all-and this kitchen, when Robert gets flags for it (he looked down at the earthen floor, which was worn into holes and damp in some places); and when some new glass is put in the window there, it will be so clean and, cheerful, with Agnes to see that it's all kept right, that you'll not rue any little money you may spend on it, believe me."

"I have lived here many a year without carpets and window-curtains, ay, and without flags on the kitchen -what's good enough for me won't do for her, I suppose," said Mrs. Murphy, in a sharp, bitter voice.

"Ay, it's true; it done for Bettymy Betty, as it is-and why shouldn't it do for Robert's wife too?" cried the old man, gruffly.

"To be sure she's to bring such a great fortune with her, that she'll buy new furniture out and out," sneered Mrs. Murphy, with a malicious smile on her thin lips.

The father of Agnes reddened with

anger.

"I am sorry my daughter is to enter your house," he cried, passionately; "my daughter, who is one of the best treasures of heaven in herself-my daughter to be twitted by you, because she does not bring a large fortune. I have saved a moderate fortune for her, as much as girls of her rank usually have as much as your son, Mrs. Murphy, is entitled to, let me tell you; but if he-if you, Robert, have such sentiments regarding my daugh ter's fortune, as your mother expresses, my daughter shall never enter this house it is not yet too late to break off_____”

He was interrupted by Robert who, with every appearance of sincerity, and with real sincerity at the moment, made protestations that he never dreamed of being discontented, because that his Agnes had not more fortune.

The schoolmaster was a little pacified; but he sighed deeply, and seemed very sorrowful. "Poor Agnes-the good daughter-the delight of my eyes; to hear them talking about her fortune-her, with all the riches of goodness and kindliness in her-the

riches that gold and silver can never bring to many a wealthy man; it's heart-breaking to hear it." He spoke slowly and dreamily, as if in a sad reverie on the future fate to which his daughter might be subjected.

"You love her, I see-you're very fond of Agnes," said Mrs. Murphy.

"Love her! ay, love her, indeednobody knows how I love her. God knows I've been troubled sometimes thinking that good wouldn't happen her, because I love her too well-the darling girl, she's so like her mother." She is," replied Mrs. Murphy"she is like her mother;" and a look of bitterness, mingled with triumph, passed over her face.

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"Her good, beautiful mother, who died and left me so soon," continued the schoolmaster. Agnes doesn't speak, or smile, or walk, or turn round, but I think I see her mother before Don't you see it, Mrs. Murphy? You remember her mother; isn't the likeness great?"

me.

Little did the schoolmaster dream of the old, but unhealed and cankering wounds he was probing as he spoke.

"I remember it well; I remember her very well." Mrs. Murphy turned her face towards the window as she spoke; but neither her voice nor countenance betrayed any emotion.

"It was not the wish of my poor Agnes that I should talk to you about these little matters I have mentioned. She begged me not to speak on the subject, the dear girl; for it's no ambition to be finer than her neighbours, or the like of that, makes her wish to have things tasty. She told me she could live with Robert in the worst cabin in Ireland, and think it no hardship; though, to be sure, if her circumstances allowed it, she would like to have a nice clean house, to make her husband comfortable, and content with his home."

Shortly aftewards the father of Agnes took his leave, carrying a message from Robert, to the effect that he would spend the evening with his bride.

elect.

"Do not be late of returning home this evening, Robert," Mrs. Murphy said to her son, when the schoolmaster had gone; "I want to have some very particular conversation with you."

Agnes sat in her father's little parlour, which she was so shortly to leave for her new home-or rather, which she calculated on leaving. A female cousin was with her, and they were 1th busily engaged in finishing a dress. It was not the white muslin bridal dress, with its white ribbonsthat was finished already; it was a printed calico dress, for every-day household wear.

The smile and the blush of the young bride showed beyond all doubt that she was one of the happy. She had large, bright, affectionate, brown eyes, with a smooth and pink-tinted complexion, and soft brown hair; her face and figure were altogether very pleasing and graceful. As she sat and sewed industriously, she looked round the little parlour, with a half sigh now and again, that she was so soon to leave it.

It was an humble room, when compared with fine apartments; nevertheless, it was most cheering and comfortable, and there was taste displayed in its decorations. It was well lighted with two windows to the south; the window panes were strikingly bright and unfractured for an Irish cottage. The walls of the little parlour were painted of a light gold-coloured green; the chintz window-curtains were white and green, with scattered rose-coloured flowers; the carpet was of green, scarlet, and white. There was a small mahogany centre-table, which had been kept most carefully polished; it was, indeed, a perfect mirror in its way, that little table, for it reflected distinctly the glass filled with beautiful red and white roses, which stood on it. There was a canary in a handsome green wire-cage; a happy, healthy canary it was, with remarkably beautiful plumage, and a particularly pleasing note. There were pots of flowering plants in the window-seats, covered with a profusion of green leaves and many-tinted blossoms. It was in every respect a neat and pretty room, and showed that Agnes was gifted with tastes too rarely, alas! to be met with in her rank in Ireland.

The bright tint on the cheek of Agnes, and the glow in her happy eyes, showed that she and her cousin were talking of Robert Murphy.

"He is so kind to his mother-s attentive to her slightest wish," said Agnes.

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She has very great influence over

him, I believe," said the cousin, who was a thin, pale-faced, reflective, and wise girl, or woman, considerably past the flush of the bright blood and bright hopes of youth, but yet with nothing of the ill-nature so falsely attributed to old maids in general.

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Very great influence,” reiterated Agnes, gently; but that is not wrong, surely. It is right that a mother should have influence over her son."

She looked earnestly and anxiously in her cousin's face; she was eager to hear some explanation of the doubtful word, or rather doubtful manner of her cousin, for she fully appreciated her wisdom and penetration of character.

"It is perfectly right that a mother should influence her son, provided that influence is for good," answered the cousin.

"But you do not surely think that Robert could be influenced to do any thing evil, even by his mother?"

The young bride laid down her work as she spoke, and a shade of uneasiness passed over her usually placid face.

The cousin looked pitifully and fondly on her. The cousin had heard much of the manner in which Mrs. Murphy had influenced her son, even to the extent of treating his father sometimes with neglect, if not unkind. ness; but the cousin's heart was too full of kindness to wound the happy young bride, by detailing the reports which were in circulation.

"I am convinced that when you are married to Robert, there will be no bad influences exerted over him which you will not be able to counteract," she said.

Agnes seemed to wish for some further information, but at that moment her two young brothers came into the room. Henry, the elder, was nineteen; he looked grave and thoughtful, and rather sorrowful, on the occasion of losing his sister, whom he most fondly loved. But George, the youngest, & boy of thirteen, was all animation and mirth at the idea of a wedding taking place in the house.

"And this poor canary will go, too," said Henry, in a sorrowful tone, looking up at the bright bird, which was singing gaily at the moment.

"Yes," answered the bride; "Robert wishes me to take it with me. He says he will put the cage up in the most

cheerful place in his parlour; and, indeed, it will enliven the room so much, you know. You can make another cage, Henry; and it will be easy for you to get another canary. I am very fond of poor ca'rey, up there; he is a little friend to me; I would miss him sadly if I did not see him every day, or every hour, rather."

"And the flower-pots," cried George, "you will carry them off with you, too?"

"Oh! I shall leave you at least the half of them; and I hope you will become a better guardian than you have been, George; you recollect the poor fuchsia you took charge of."

"I don't care for flowers; I like fishing and shooting better than flowers; but I'll have some fun at your wedding to-morrow."

"I shall take that geranium that was so nearly dead a while ago; see how fresh it looks now. I have watched every leaf of it opening out in renewed health; I would not like to part with that flower, do you know.

You may

laugh at me now; but, indeed, I could not help thinking, many a time, as I put fresh clay about its sickly roots, and watered it, and attended to it, and watched over it, that it had some kind of feeling in it-that it knew I was its friend, and looked fresher every time I came near it."

The young bride paused in her sewing for a moment, and looked with enthusiastic fondness on the geranium.

The younger brother laughed merrily, and said, that the plant in the flower-pot would, he doubted not, if it continued to flourish, soon be able to speak, and hold a conversation with Agnes. The elder] brother sighed, saying

"The flowers will miss you, Agnes -we shall all miss you heavily."

At that moment, Robert Murphy entered. One by one the brothers and cousin left the room, and Robert and Agnes were left to hold by themselves that conversation of love which is so delightful to the parties concerned, but so uninteresting generally to all the world besides.

"He's so long of coming," muttered Mrs. Murphy, looking out of the door, and gazing on the road by which her son was to come; "he soon for

gets me when he's with her; her mother had the same arts-just the same. Well, it's no matter; it will all turn round on them yet."

Her face wore its usual cold calmness, and bitterness of look. None of the restlessness of some anxiouslydebated design was visible on her features. The impress of a fixed and evil purpose was on her brow. It seemed years since any strugglings between the two governing spirits of our world -good and evil-had been depicted on her hard countenance.

She stood, and gazed up on the sky. It was the beautiful sky of a summer moonlight night; from the bright heavens there seemed to come, as if palpably, those holy influences of quiet and peace which a night-sky shadows forth so much more strongly than the light of day. But no light of peace and happiness could be kindled in the dark, evil eyes of Mrs. Murphy, by gazing on the fair and holy expanse to which her head was raised. Doubtless she felt that there was condemnation of her mind and purposes in that sky; for she closed the door, and went and seated herself by her kitchen fire. All was solitary around. Her husband was in bed some time. Robert's dog had gone with its master, and remained with him; the cat was out on her nocturnal expeditions-no sound, except a feeble chirping of crickets, was heard. A few turf, burned down to almost the last remains, glimmered on the hearth, and cast a dull, dim light through the kit. chen; its usually squalid and comfortless aspect was more discernible by the dull light than even in the sunshine of day.

Mrs. Murphy crossed her arms on her breast, and sat gazing into the ashes. She sat in the same immoveable position for a length of time. She did not seem drowsy, nor in any way in. clined to sleep. The demon of evil is ever sleepless; and, therefore, she dreamed not of slumber. Three or four times she turned to the door, fancying she heard the footsteps of her son, and then, with a slight and momentary gesture of impatience, she would fold her arms again, and continue her gaze on the ashes of the dying fire.

At length, when midnight had come, a light, brisk step was heard at the door, and Robert entered.

He approached his mother with a cheerful and happy face.

"Well, mother-sitting up, I see; but what have you got to say to me? You told me it was something particular. It's a dull, dark place you have got of it here." He drew a stool to his mother's side and sat down. "It's dark and dismal, to be sure; it won't be so when Agnes comes."

"It's not so dark and dismal as my heart," said his mother, with a deep sigh.

"Your heart-your heart dark and dismal," reiterated Robert, looking on her with surprise and concern, for he loved his mother as deeply as his nature would permit him to love.

"Is it any wonder I'm the sorrowful woman this night," she said, sighing deeply, and covering her face with her hands.

"But what sorrow have you, mother?-only tell me, and I'm not the man to let anybody make you sorry."

"You've been a good son to me, Robert" she placed her hand on his shoulder, and partly around his neck "You've been the very light of my eyes. What had I but you to make me live on in this black world-my heart's pride is in you, for who's like you in the whole country; is there a gentleman's son has a face and shape like you, or better breeding?"

A thrill of delight went through the soul of Robert, for vanity was the ruling passion of that soul, and well his mother knew it.

"And to think," continued his mother, "that such a young man as you would throw yourself away on that girl, that Agnes Allen, the daughter of a poor schoolmaster."

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But, mother," cried Robert, "I thought you had got over all the dislike to poor Agnes and her father, that you had at first. Didn't you tell me, three or four days ago, that you would try and be content, and wasn't I quite sure you were contented?"

"I was never contented in my heart -my heart was always black when I thought of her coming here, and me having to look at her all day long; but I seemed to be contented for a while, because, Robert, I thought she loved you." She laid a deep emphasis on the last words.

Robert opened his eyes wide in surprise.

"And does she not love me-I know

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"I must hear it," he cried fiercely.

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Well, well, I was foolish enough to think you had little spirit; I thought you would be blind, no matter what she did but I see now you have the spirit of your mother in you."

"Tell me at once what you are alluding to, and then you'll see if I haven't spirit."

"There's many a girl as well as Agnes casts an eye upon that recruiting serjeant in L. To be sure he's a fine fellow-he's the half of the head taller than you, Robert, I'm thinking; there's no farmer has a chance for the heart of a girl when a redcoat comes in her way.'

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Now, mother, I think that's only foolishness. Agnes is not the girl to do that when did ever she speak to that serjeant?"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me; no, you would not believe it, if you saw her with your own eyes, sitting drinking, her and that serjeant, themselves two, in a public-house in the town, when she went last Friday to buy the ribbons for the dress in which she's to be married to you."

She uttered this unfounded slander of poor Agnes in a manner so appa

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