blazed feverishly. The gold-brown curls were
thrown back from her forehead, as though they
had heated it.

"Oh, good Mr. Shaw!" she cried, when she
saw him, and big bright tears gathered in her
eyes, and rolled down her face on to the bed-
clothes.

"I knew you were here, because Lingo came
up-stairs to tell me. He startled me a little at
first by barking, but he didn't know that I
must be quiet. When I told him what the
doctor said, he was very still and gentle, weren't
you, Lingo?"

Lingo's tail, stretched on the floor at right
angles with his body, vibrated with suppressed
emotion, but he remained otherwise motionless.

"Colleen bawn, this won't do," said Mr.
Shaw, abruptly, but in a subdued voice.
"What's to become of us, if ye fall sick on our
hands, will ye tell me that?"

Corda smiled. "Oh, I am not very sick, Mr.
Shaw. I shall soon be better. And I am not crying
because I'm sorry," added the child, with sensitive
apprehension lest he should be hurt, "but
because I'm glad to see you. It's de—debility,
the doctor says. Do you think it is debility?"

"If the doctor says so, Corda asthore, it's
probably—true," replied Jerry, ending his
speech with an air of saying something
unexpected. "But what knocked you over so
suddenly, mavourneen?"

Jerry's lips had been long unused to accents
of tenderness, and with their resumption came
the familiar phrases of his boyhood. Caressing
words that had been crooned into his ear by
nurse or mother in the old, old time. Corda
looked up at him with solemn searching eyes,
eyes that had forgotten themselves, and were
intent on seeing, with no idea of seeming. A
thought flashed up into her face as she looked,
and trembled over the sensitive countenance
like sunlight on clear waters. "I wonder," she
said; and then ceased, and dropped her eyes.

"If I would do something for you? Is that
your wonder, you mysterious little Leprechaun?"

"Yes, partly. And if—if it would be right
to ask you."

"Sorra a fear of that, machree, if you think
you'd like to ask it."

Corda shook her head doubtfully. "I wish
I was sure," she said. "Isn't it hard to be
sure, Mr. Shaw? I thought and thought all
yesterday evening, and nearly all night, and then
at last I said my prayers, and afterwards I felt
—I hoped that God would let me do what was
right, if I tried really, you know."

Jerry Shaw watched the child keenly. He
was puzzled. "What can be troubling that
pure tender conscience?" thought he.

Corda pushed her hand beneath the pillow
that supported her head, and drew forth a letter.

"Would you," she asked, " would you get
me a pen and ink from the parlour, Mr. Shaw?
They would not let me have them yesterday."

"'Did you want to write, then?" cried Jerry,
more and more perplexed.

"Only the direction. The inside of the letter
is written. I did it with a pencil."

"But, Corda, is that all the great favour
you had to ask of me? It's a mighty little
matter to make such a fuss about!"

"No; not quite all. If you would please to
get me the pen and ink first, I will tell you
what I want to ask afterwards."

Mr. Shaw descended to the parlour in silence,
took up the inkstand and a pen that had seen
long service, and returned to Corda's bedside
with them. She thanked him, and sitting up in
bed, scrawled a direction on the envelope. Then
she turned to Mr. Shaw, still holding the letter
firmly in her hand, and said: "This is the
favour, Mr. Shaw. Will you put this letter in
the post for me? I wouldn't ask you if I was
able to go out and do it myself. And—stop a
moment, please, that's not all. Will you promise
not to look at the direction, and never to tell
anybody about the letter, not—not even papa?"

"Corda!"

"Indeed, I think it's right. Indeed, indeed I
do. I know it seems sly and secret, but I hope
I am doing what is best. Pray believe me."

She was so excited, and trembled so much,
that the old man made her lie down, smoothed
her hair from her brow, and bathed her forehead
with some eau-de-Cologne that stood on the
table. The sweet water was the property of her
brother. Alfred Trescott was prone to indulge
in such personal luxuries. But old Jerry neither
knew nor cared anything about that. Presently
Corda spoke again.

"If you think you can't promise, Mr. Shaw, I
shall know it is because you think it would not
be right. And you are much older and wiser than
I, and I shall be sure you are not a bit unkind."

"I can promise, Corda, and I do promise.
There's my word on it."

"Oh, thank you; thank you a thousand
times! And I hope—I do hope you don't think
ill of me for it." Corda glanced up very
wistfully into his face as she spoke.

"Lingo," said Jerry Shaw, " exert your fine
common sense and good feeling. Don't be
sitting there on end like a china dog on a chimney-
piece! Bedad, you're a quare fish; there's
times when I can scarcely make you out myself.
Tell Corda what we think of her."

The dog, who had watched his master's face
unwinkingly during this address, rose up with
his fore-paws resting on the bed, stretched out
his rough head, and gently pushing aside her
sleeve with his nose, licked Corda's fair slight
hand and arm affectionately.

"I'm proud of ye, sir," said Jerry, seizing
Lingo's bushy tail and shaking it with much
heartiness. "You're a fine fellow, and I'm
proud of ye. Now I'm going to do my errand.
I shan't be long gone, and, meanwhile, you will
remain with this lady and take care of her, d'ye
hear me, now? Your behaviour this day has
done equal honour to your head and heart, let
me tell you that!"

Jerry took Corda's letter, carefully abstaining
from glancing at the address on the cover.