night, and for two years contrived to evade pursuit and discovery. At the end of this period she was allowed to rejoin her husband in London, where she tended him as a true wife, solaced his captivity, and became the mother of several children. In 1596 the Earl of Clancarty died; and again arose a furious scramble in Kerry and Desmond over the remains of the dead. In 1599 Florence was allowed to return to Ireland, on the condition of serving the queen, and with ample powers to repair to the rebelcamps, and negotiate on the part of her majesty It was in this year, whilst Tyrone was in Munster, and not many months before Carew's arrival there, that Florence was inaugurated the M'Carthy More, in an assembly of all the chiefs of his race, presided over in regal fashion by the Northern Earl. O'Sullivan More attended, and completed the investiture by the presentation of the white rod. Want of space forbids more than a few additional details. From the moment of Carew's coming into Munster, Florence became the object of that functionary's plots and slanders. These proceedings terminated in an act of atrocious treachery on the president's part. The latter inveigled his victim to Cork, under a safe-conduct and letters of protection, in June, 1601, and whilst under her majesty's safeguard, had him arrested, and, along with the titular Earl of Desmond, conveyed a prisoner to London, where for forty years he lived, pined, and ultimately died. Rumours of a Spanish invasion was the motive which impelled Carew to this most villainous act; he trembled, yielded to temptation, and broke his own and sovereign's plighted word. It is painful to have to close this slight sketch with the avowal of a fact which threw the darkest shadow on the close of Florence's life. The Lady Ellen had been corrupted by the arts of Carew, and played the spy on her husband. All his secrets and his correspondence were from time to time divulged to his bitterest foe by her whom he had so fondly loved, and so dearly won in the day of his passionate youth. When Florence became aware of her guilt, he refused to see her more, or to hold any communication with her. The lady thereupon solaced herself with a government pension and a residence at Castlelough, on Killarney lakes, one of the principal of her ancestral strongholds. Reader, the Lake Hotel now welcomes the tourist where the Lady Ellen Carthy, wife of the gallant and unfortunate Florence M'Carthy More, once eked out her existence, and, it is to be hoped, shed tears over her crime.

THOMAS GALLWEY,

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE CYGNET'S STORY,

(A DANISH LEGEND.)

Down where the river spreads to its widest reach,
Is an eyot of trees,

A line of poplar and alders, and one big beech;
And under these

Willow weed tall as a man, like a ripening peach:
And up to the knees

Wades in the stream a willow, whose long locks bleach
To the questing breeze.

Whenever I passed thereby, or late or soon,
It shivered and wept;

When midges danced in the sun, when sunk from the moon
The lilies slept.

I wondered why: so at last on an afternoon

Through the reeds I crept,

Lay at its side, and said, "Old willow, a boon !"→
Then a troutling leapt.

:

But I would not mind the trout just then I said,
"Old mournful tree,

Why do you tremble so, and hang your head?
Come, tell to me!

Is it for trouble that comes, or bygone dread?"
Then answered he,

"Alack, for the bonnie buckwheat, burnt and dead,
Was bright of blee!

"It grew in a field close by, on the further side,
All blue and bright,

And high for joy of its beauty waxed its pride-
Whence came the blight;

For when the

storm bolts opened the portals wide
To show Heaven's light,

The buckwheat scorned, as others, its head to hide,
And waved upright.

"For when the lightning flashes the skies divide,
Is Heaven laid bare,

That the awful face of the Father might be descried
Who sitteth there,

If one might gaze, but all their faces hide
From that dread glare:

"And, 'Bow yourselves, mad grasses!' loud I cried-
'What will ye dare?'

"But the buckwheat said, 'Behold, as the eyes of God Are the buds we bear;

Naught like them swings on bough or springs from sodAll may we dare!

Even the Judge would spare to smite with his rod

So will we,

A thing so fair:

gazing on Heaven when storms are abroad,
See what is there.'

"The skies grew blacker and blacker, and zigzags blue The blackness crossed.

Once, as I bent in haste, I caught a view

Where blue buds tossed

In wanton pride, and a fall must come, I knew.
I said, 'They are lost!'

I trembling peered through night, till darkness flew,
With a heart like frost.

"The morning came, all sunny and fresh: Alack! In the beaten field

The buckwheat lay, all broken, and scorched, and blackIts fate was sealed:

And this is why I evermore bow my back,

And pity I yield

For that bright bloom all gone to sorrowful wrack
And loss of the weald."

Ceased the old willow, and bent in the wave to look,
With its branches grey;

It would not answer again, so my wings I shook,
And I stole away

To talk to the chattering mill-wheel up the brook,
That is always gay:

But the willow weeps on its shady island nook

By night and day.

B. MONTGOMERIE RANKING.

THE OPENING DOOR.

BY RICHARD DOWLING.

PART I.

THE town of Cloneagh is one of the largest in the County Tipperary. It was once of much more importance than it now is. It has no factories, no mills, no commerce by water with the sea. On one side are low rolling hills; on the other three sides is a wide plain full of fine pasture-land and tillage, and dotted closely with prosperous farmsteads. The people of the town are peaceful and well-to-do. But there is now no more practical or unromantic town from Antrim to Cape Clear. In the old days this town helped to make history. It was then walled, and knew sieges, and famine, and plots, and treachery, and the other landmarks discernible in "the dark backward and abysm of time."

The town is unspeakably quiet. It seems as though it had fallen asleep long ago, and believed itself to be only dreaming through the events and circumstances of to-day. No doubt, a railway passes by Cloneagh, but then the station is a mile from the town, and many of the most respectable inhabitants have not yet set eyes on a steam engine.

Many of the shopkeepers are even more old-fashioned than the town itself. The prejudices of a hundred and fifty years ago linger in a few of the best houses. It is most unlikely you could get ten people of Cloncagh to taste Australian cooked mutton. Telescopes are looked on with suspicion, and microscopes with dread.

But there was, in the year 1870, among the shopkeepers one honourable exception to this condition of unfaith in all things not old, and common, and familiar. His name was William Curran ; but as he was powerful in talk, and popular, and a most upright grocer, he was known throughout the town and neighbourhood as Billy Curran.

William Curran was a self-made man. He was the youngest son of a farmer who lived three miles from Cloneagh. When he was fifteen, his father had apprenticed him to one of the most respectable grocers of the town. From that day his conduct had been blameless. The people of Cloneagh-and some of them were keen to find flaws in the conduct of their neighbours-could not point to a single doubtful action of Curran's. He had minded his business, paid his way, and given offence to no man. He had for twenty years saved up most of his small salary, and when close on forty years of age married the daughter of his

employer, and carried on the business of his former master as soon as the old man died.

When a daughter was born to him, his joy was great; but later on, when a son and heir was given to him, William Curran was almost beside himself with delight. From the moment that child made his appearance in the world, the whole end and aim of the father's heart was to bring up that son so that he might be a credit to himself, and the wonder of the town of Cloncagh and the County Tipperary.

The boy's education became his prime care for many years. He had allowed Mrs. Curran complete control over their daughter Mary, and reserved to himself complete control over his son.

It is only fair," he had said, "that the women should have the girls and the men the boys. That is only just."

Feeling the weight of a grave responsibility upon him, he made all preparations in his power to discharge it worthily.

"The boy must be well grounded first in his religion," he decided. Accordingly, when James was old enough, he was sent to a day-school in Cloneagh, where special attention was given to religious subjects.

The boy was rather dull and heavy, and it took a good deal of teaching to get simple things into his head. But he was hardworking, and painstaking, and docile; and in time he mounted to the top of that day-school, and it became necessary for his father to look out a more advanced school for his son.

"Once you ground a boy well in his religion, you may allow him more latitude than most people think," said William Curran often to his wife. At this time he had almost determined to brave the public opinion of Cloneagh, and send the boy to a secular college or a mixed school. But he, after long debate, de

cided to send the boy to Tullamore.

The boy remained some years at Tullamore, and here, as at the day-school, he distinguished himself more by his good conduct and his plodding application than by any display of genius or talent.

"Never mind," his father would say; "sharp boys make dull men, and so long as my boy keeps his conduct good and sticks to his books steadily, he'll get on much better than what are called your brilliant lads. My lad is now sixteen, and I'll apprentice him to Dr. Hogan when he comes back from Tullamore College; and as soon as he's done with Dr. Hogan, I'll send him off to Dublin City, and have him finished in the best way that money and talent can do—and no mistake."

It was in the year 1870 that young James Curran was apprenticed to Dr. Hogan of Cloncagh. Although Dr. Hogan happened to be an apothecary, he was not only cailed doctor, but looked upon as a very skilful practitioner.

At that time William Curran was a tall, thin, dark-featured