est.

tion, was a young merchant, belonging to a newly-established firm. Rich, handsome, and very agreeable, despite his loquacity, it was not surprising that the Mertons allowed their thoughts to dwell upon him with no small degree of interHis wealth suited the father, his talents the daughter. Eleanor no longer hastened to quit the parlor at an early hour in the evening. She was deeply concerned in the development of the little drama, and most attentively did she watch its progress. The result was not long uncertain.

CHAPTER IX.

"Where glorious mansions are prepared above,

The seats of music and the seats of love,
Thence I descend, and, Piety my name,

To warm thy bosom with celestial flame;

To teach thee praises mixed with humble prayers,
And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs."

PARNELL.

He

In the course of Eleanor's long, solitary excursions, she had, within a few months, often met a gentleman, whose appearance was so remarkably striking, that she was hardly able to refrain from closer observation than courtesy warranted. was evidently about sixty years of age. His hair was entirely white; this, being very long and luxuriant, contributed to the imposing effect produced upon the mind of Eleanor, by the eagle eyes, the austere yet benevolent expression of countenance, and the uncommon majesty of mien, which characterized the stranger. She longed for an introduction to this unknown pedestrian, for her knowledge of physiognomy told her that his was a sympathizing heart. As she never encountered him in her own village, she despaired

of obtaining his acquaintance. It was only when several miles from home, upon the borders of a neighboring city, that she met her new friend. Yes, she already considered him as a friend; she saw that he looked inquiringly, almost inquisitively upon her pale, sad countenance, and she intuitively felt, that to him she could disclose all the griefs, which, although well concealed and bravely repelled, were rending her young heart.

As she was one day passing a shanty, stationed near a railroad then in process of construction, she was startled by the sound of groans, mingled with ejaculations which seemed to be efforts at prayer. She thought of entering, but paused a moment in suspense. Presently a little white-haired boy, who had espied her from the window, appeared, and accosting her in the almost unintelligible brogue which distinguishes the uneducated Hibernian, told her that his father was dying of an injury occasioned by a railroad accident which had occurred the day previous, and ended by entreating her to enter and comfort his mother, for the priest was wholly occupied with the soul of the expiring laborer.

Eleanor, with all her untiring benevolence, with all her love for adventure, rather shrank from compliance with the lad's request, on learning that a priest of the Church of Rome was present. The

ideas of penance, purgatory and Jesuitism arose before her mental vision. A moment after, she thought of Pascal, Bossuet, Fenelon, and other noble-minded men, who had lived and died in the Romish Church. She no longer hesitated; with unwavering step she followed the urchin, who had seized the end of her mantle, as if to preclude the possibility of escape. The humble dwelling had no floor save the ground; the bedstead was a contrivance which would have reflected honor upon the brain of a genuine Yankee; a few broken chairs were scattered around the only room which the building contained. The woman was wringing her hands and sobbing with frantic grief. On the bed lay the husband in the agonies of death. Standing by the bed-side was the venerable man whom Eleanor had so often met in the forest. With holy awe, mingled with extreme tenderness of manner, he was extending the crucifix, and directing the soul of his humble parishioner to the great sacrifice once made for the sins of the world.

Eleanor sat down by the heart-broken wife, and pressed her hand as an expression of sympathy. "Oh, Miss," gasped the woman, "Patrick is going!"

"Then let us pray for his soul," replied Eleanor, endeavoring to appear tranquil; and half

surprised at her own act, she took a rosary from the nail upon which it was hanging, and put it into the hands of Mrs. Malone. The poor woman mechanically took it, like a person worn and weary beyond resistance, and passively moving her fingers over the beads, became calmer as she continued to utter one invocation after another to the Almighty Father, to Jesus the Saviour, to the Blessed Virgin and to saints innumerable. Eleanor had never before witnessed death, and although the whole scene was agonizing, she was irresistibly chained to the spot. She felt, too, that she had partially alleviated the sorrow of the afflicted woman, so soon to be left alone in a land of strangers. She had directed her attention to the Great Being to whom she felt that they could both look, although the mode of petitioning might be different, and in one case fettered by useless forms. Friends and neighbors entered as the soul was departing. After all was over, the priest, with great solemnity, prayed for the soul of the deceased man, and for those of all present in the house of mourning, beseeching God that none might pass away from the scenes of earth till Jesus had been made manifest to the spirit. Then, with apostolic fervor, he gave his benediction to the assembled company, and prepared to leave, that the dead might receive the