"I should think not, indeed!"
interrupted Gertrude. "Oh, I see plainly what
it will be. We shall lead nice lives with
that awful woman!"

"I don't think you'll find, as I've told
you before, that that 'awful woman' as you
call her, will trouble herself with our
companionship for long," said Maud; "and
I cannot say that when she once comes into
the house as mistress I should feel the
least desire to remain here."

"And she'll do anything with poor
uncle," said Gertrude; "he dotes on her."

"Naturally," said Mr. Benthall; "and
she is very much attached to him?"

This question was rather addressed to
Maud, and she answered it by saying
quietly, "I suppose so."

"Oh, nonsense, Maud!" said Gertrude;
"uncle's an old dear—kindest, nicest old
thing in the world, but not for a girl to like
in—well, in that sort of way, don't you
know! Not the sort of man to be a girl's
first love, I mean!"

"Are you sure that your uncle is Miss
Ashurst's first love?"

""We never heard of any other. What
is it, George—Mr. Benthall, I mean?
You've found out something! Oh, do tell
us!"

"Did you know anything of a Mr.Joyce,
who was one of Mr. Ashurst's masters?"

"Certainly—a small, slim, good-looking
young man," said Maud.

"Good-looking, eh?" said Mr. Benthall.

"Should not you say so, Gertrude?"

"Well, I don't know," said Gertrude;
"he was too short, I think, and too dark.

I like a—I mean—" And Gertrude
broke down, and flew the flag of distress in
her face again.

"What of Mr. Joyce, in connexion with
the subject on which we were talking, Mr.
Benthall?" asked Maud.

And then Mr. Benthall told them all he
had heard from Mrs. Covey.

Gertrude went alone with Mr. Benthall
to the gate, and they were a very long time
saying their adieux. When she came back
to the house she found her sister in the
hall.

"You found the gate very difficult to
open, Gerty!" said Maud, with her grave
smile.

"Yes, dear, very difficult! Do you know,
dear,—he hasn't said anything, but I think
Mr. Benthall is going to ask me to be his
wife!"

"Well, Gerty, and what then?"

"Then I shall have a home to offer you,
my darling! a home where we can be
together, and needn't be under the rule of
that beautiful, superior creature!"

               THE IRISH IN AMERICA.

THERE are few more suggestive sights to a
thoughtful mind than that which may be
witnessed, several days in each week, at
Queenstown, the harbour of Cork. It is there that
the hundreds of poor Irish emigrants who
every week flock on board the westward-bound
Atlantic steamers, walk for the last time on
their native soil, and gaze for the last time upon
their dear home-friends. No one can see the
embarcation of these multitudes of forlorn
creatures, the long painful parting from country
and from friends, the crowding of the steerage
deck as the steamer slowly swings out of the
harbour into the open sea, the tearful eyes,
covering the rude visages with honest moisture,
straining to catch a last glimpse of the dear
people who stand on the shore, the exclamations
and throwing out of arms as the beloved
slopes of the Irish coast gradually recede from
the view, no one with a heart can see this sight
unmoved, or without feeling a keen sympathy
for the motley, even ludicrous-looking, crowd
which is huddled together in the "forward"
part of the ship.

Why have they left their native land, and
what will they do when they reach America?
Poverty and hardship, the impossibility of existing
in their own crowded country, the accounts
which have come from friends in America, and
the wonderful narratives of lucky neighbours,
who have returned to tell how the poor man
thrives on the Western Continent, these are the
causes which have determined the bold venture.
What they will do when they reach the other
shore, few of them have the remotest
conception. They are haunted by visions of
broad acres and vast meadows which await
the first comer; by prospects of great fortunes
easily acquired; by hopes of penetrating to
the mines, and drawing thence endless nuggets
of gold and silver. Some go in response to
the urgent entreaty of relatives who have
already tried the experiment. This old man is
going to join his daughter Biddy, a prosperous
maid-of-all-work in New York; or to see his
lusty son, Pat, who has subdued a government-
given tract of forest and prairie land in the Far
West, so that it now yields him goodly crops of
wheat, and enables him to live in ease and
contentment. These brawny fellows have had
a message from a townsman, who is happy as
a prosperous builder of railroads, and has told
them that they have only to get over, to
prosper likewise.

With what self-denial have the poor souls
hoarded up their pennies and sixpences, until
they grew to the six sovereigns requisite to buy
a steerage passage! And how crowded and
huddled together are they over there in the