"Not now, Callanan-not now. Why did you not take my advice when I spoke to you before, and send her somewhere?" "Why, you seemed to be merely jesting at that time," said Mr. Callanan rather faintly.

“Ah, my dear Callinan, the amor nummi had too strong a hold over your mind. You were rather careless in the matter, I must say."

“Perhaps I was, indeed," Mr. Callanan returned, with a look of perplexity. "But do you think there is any real danger?"

"Don't ask me now," returned the Doctor. "You don't suppose I can tell the exact time of death:

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede,'

as Horace says; as much as to say, Death gives us all fair play, though it does happen that the young and beautiful sometimes go first. Good evening, Callanan. To-morrow, I'll call again; and let us hope for the best."

With these words Dr. Colgan drove away, and Mr. Callanan returned into the house with a very rueful countenance.

On the following day, Ellie rose early to accompany her mother to Mass. But the effort proved too much for her; and on their return, just before breakfast, Mrs. Callanan related in a very excited manner how Ellie had fainted in the church. This, perhaps, would not have attracted very much attention, as it had happened before, had not the girl showed signs of unusual debility. She lay languidly on the sofa, looking as death-like as if she were an animated corpse; and, despite her mother's urgent entreaties, declared that she could eat no breakfast.

Charles was very much saddened at this sight; and, after breakfast, he sat by his sister's side, even when his father and mother had left the room.

"Don't you think, Charley, it seems very likely now that what I said yesterday will soon come to pass ?" Ellic asked, with a

faint smile.

"If you brood so much over such a gloomy subject," Charles answered, “it may come to pass. But then, surely, it would be your own fault."

"I can't help thinking about it," said Ellic, with a kind of quiet hopelessness." It takes hold of my mind with some sort of irresistible force. Besides, you know, there is nobody to whom I may speak about it but yourself-nobody of my own age, I mean, who could understand me. Do you know, Charley, what I think causes these gloomy thoughts?"

"Some morbid fancy, perhaps?"

66

"No," said Ellie, looking at her brother very mournfully; “I believe it is the Shadow of Death."

"The Shadow of Death!" repeated Charles thoughtfully. "How strangely that expression sounds in my cars! Where can I have

seen it last?

Ah, I remember now; it was in Miss Quain's

story of the two sisters."

"Do you know a Miss Quain ?" cried Ellie, raising herself on the sofa with an effort.

"Yes."

"Where did you meet her?"

"At Moore's Court."

"I knew a girl named Mary Quain at the convent where I was in Paris. Her father, I believe, was a barrister."

"It must be the very same person," said Charles, filled with astonishment. "She is now a governess at Moore's Court. I believe circumstances have compelled her to earn her bread in this way; but it was not hard for me to see that she is a perfect lady."

"Mary Quain!" the girl exclaimed, with some of her old impetuosity; "the cleverest girl in the whole school! How well I remember her appearance! Grey eyes that seem to be always thinking-brown hair-pale face-speaks very little until you speak to her first. And so she is a governess at Moore's Court! O Charles, I would give so much to see her!”

"Miss Quain and I are—friends,” said Charles. "Perhaps she might come to see you if——”

"Oh, will you write to her, Charley?" cried Ellie, interrupting him. "It would do me good to see her. She was nearly three years older than I; but we liked one another ever so much. Did she speak of me?"

"Well, no-yes! she alluded to you once, I remember. But I did not think she knew you."

"Ah, she did not appear to remember me, then. However, she may not wish to speak about our school-days. She was always very undemonstrative. But will you write to her?" As she spoke, Ellie sank back upon the sofa, almost exhausted, as if the exertion had been too much for her. Charles felt a little embarrassed at his sister's request. Ellie's notions were so unconventional, that she did not appear to see the slightest impropriety in her brother writing to a young lady whom they both knew. But she was not aware of the declaration he had made to Miss Quain the evening before he left Moore's Court, and, therefore, could not appreciate the delicate position in which he stood. However, he promised to comply with his sister's request; and, that evening, he sat down before the writing-desk in his own room, with a few sheets of paper before him, and a very perplexed look in his face. After pausing for a few minutes, he commenced thus:"MY DEAREST MARY—”

then stopped in sudden confusion. write a love-letter. That would pression. His object was to induce

Surely he was not going to certainly create a false imMiss Quain to come and see

his invalid sister, and one who had been at the same school with her. Why should he surround such a simple request with a film. of sentiment? Why should he address her as if he were merely going to talk about his own emotions? He threw aside the paper in which he had written these three words, and taking a fresh sheet began:

"DEAR MISS QUAIN—”

Here he irresolutely laid down his pen once more, and looked with some uneasiness at what he had written. This would look too formal, after all, he thought; and she would scarcely like to be addressed too ceremoniously. At last, with some irritation at his own squeamishness, he dashed off the following note:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,

"I was not aware, when I spoke to you last, that my sister and yourself were companions at school. I am sorry to tell you that she is in a very bad state of health, and has some vague fears herself that she may not recover. She seems to be very much attached to you, and now expresses such an earnest desire to see you, that if you can possibly come, I hope you will not refuse. I know you are sufficiently self-sacrificing to do anything that would benefit another.

"Believe me, your sincere friend,
"CHARLES CALLANAN."

He hastened back to the parlour when he had finished this note, and read it for his sister, who seemed to feel an intense pleasure in the prospect of meeting one of her dearest friends at school.

"Do you like her, Charley?" she suddenly asked, as he was leaving the room to seal and direct the letter. Charles grew very red at this simple question; and Ellie looked at him with some curiosity.

"Can it be that you have fallen in love with her?" she cried, with some of her old gaiety. Charles, too confused to reply to this unexpected question, hurried out of the room.

At dinner that day, Charles told his father that he had written to Miss Quain to come and see Ellic, as they had been friends at school.

"I have no objection," said Mr. Callanan. "Anything that would give her any consolation should be done. I hope it may do her some good."

That evening, Dr. Colgan called again; and when he saw the girl's intense pallor and rapidly-increasing weakness, he ordered her to be confined to her room, except when she felt able to walk about. Mr. Callanan watched the expression of the Doctor's face with the utmost anxiety.

"Is there any hope?" he asked.

"We must only leave her in the hands of God, my dear Callanan," the Doctor returned. "She is very weak; but she may have enough of vital energy to recover."

That night, Ellie had to be carried up to bed. very weak that she was scarcely able to move.

She was so

"I fear I have grown worse to-day, Charley," she said to her brother, with a faint smile; "but when Mary Quain comes, perhaps she will make me grow better again." His eyes were filled with tears as he tenderly kissed her pale forehead and bade her good-night. The Shadow of Death was already on her face. (To be continued.)

JERPOINT ABBEY.

CONSPICUOUS among the religious foundations erected in Ireland during the latter part of the twelfth century by the piety of the native princes, and also, in some instances, as votive offerings or as acts of reparation by the lately-arrived Anglo-Norman adventurers, were numerous abbeys of the Cistercian institute. The several beautiful and interesting ruins at Mellifont, Holy Cross, Jerpoint, Dunbrody, Tintern, and similar scenes of picturesque desolation, eloquently perpetuate the love and veneration cherished by the princely founders of those stately abbeys for the white-robed children of St. Bernard.

The Order of Citeaux, which exercised so vast an influence on the monastic life in Europe in the twelfth and succeeding centuries, and which gave to the Church so many distinguished saints and scholars, was founded by St. Robert of Molesme, A.D. 1098, as a reform of the Benedictine institute. The first monks of this order introduced into Ireland were sent by the great Abbot of Clairvaux, at the request of his intimate friend, St. Malachy. The latter distinguished prelate, one of the brightest ornaments of the Irish Church, laboured with indefatigable zeal to restore the injuries religion had sustained in this country during the preceding centuries of barbarian invasion. Elevated to the primatial see of Armagh, and later invested with legatine authority, he extirpated numerous abuses and reformed the ecclesiastical discipline. He was, moreover, particularly zealous for the revival of the spirit of primitive fervour and strict observance in the monastic institutions of the country. Having in 1137 undertaken a journey to the Eternal City, to solicit from the Supreme Pontiff the palliums for the archiepiscopal sees in