individual addressed, "I rather think he is—
darned sociable! I was introdooced to him
over to Grayson Springs last fall, and he hadn't
been with me ten minutes before he begged all
the tobacco I had, got his feet up in my lap,
and spat all over me! Darn-ed sociable!"

UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH.

IT was three o'clock on a fine warm afternoon
in the latter end of April. The garden
at the rear of the comfortable, whitewashed,
thickly thatched cabin, was abundantly stocked
with early cabbage and potatoes; everything
bore the look of humble prosperity; from the
blue smoke curling up from the freshly made
fire on the kitchen hearth, to the green meadows
where the cows were lying, peacefully ruminating.
A broad river, glistening in the sun's
rays, rolled smoothly beside the boundary wall
of their pasture.

Yet Kate Moran stood at her father's door
looking sadly across the river to the mass of
shipping, houses, and spires, which rose on
the other side.

"Mother, honey, I can't keep me eyes aff that
dhreadful place!" said she, turning as she spoke
to an elderly woman who sat knitting on a
bench near the fire.

"Musha, acushla, what good'll that do ye?"
said she, rising and going over to the door also.
"Come in now," putting her hand on her
daughter's shoulder caressingly.

"Oh, mother! To think o' the poor fellow
bein'———" here she fairly broke down and burst
into a wail of distress.

"Whisht now!" cried her mother. "Here's
your feither comin', and don't let him see ye
cryin.'"

Kate ran hastily into a bedroom, as her
father entered the kitchen.

"There's no chance for the poor craythur,
Pat?" asked his wife, as a broad-faced, good-
humoured-looking man came forward and sat
down on the settle.

"Chance?" said he, roughly, while his face
clouded. "Sorrow chance! He'll be hung, as
sure as I've this pipe in me hand."

"Lord have mercy on his sowl, the craythur!"
moaned his wife.

"Oh, musha! amin," said her husband,
sighing. "I'm goin' in wud the cowlt to the
fair to-morra, an' to see the last of him. It's
niver I thought to see poor Mick Welsh's son
on a gallus!"

The sun was setting over the opposite hill,
where the tall many-storied houses rose in
terraces and steep lanes, and was shedding the
last beams of his radiance on the large dark
stone building which crowned the height.
The red light seemed to be concentrated on
one part of the building, where there was
an iron gateway, spiked and double-locked.
Far above in the dark massive wall was
a small black door. And beneath this
door and around this gateway, men were busy,
putting up strong timber railings; while a
crowd, talking and gesticulating, constantly
pressed in upon the workmen, and were driven
back by officials in uniform and a few soldiers.

Inside the massive walls, other workmen were
busy, but their work was commonplace enough.
Something was wrong with the great main
sewer of the jail. Masons and bricklayers had
been labouring for some hours; and now, when
the city clocks and bells were striking six,
they were taking up their tools, putting on
their coats, and leaving their work till next
day.

There were no rough jests among them. One
man laughed as a companion slipped down into
the slimy ditch whence they had emerged; but
his merriment was checked by an involuntary
look from the others towards the far side of the
yard, where a man in a felon's dress and with
manacled hands was walking slowly up and
down.

"Lord have mercy on his sowl!" muttered
an old mason, compassionately. "Poor Tim
Welsh! As honest a boy afore he got into bad
company, as iver a father rared."

Whether the prisoner had caught the sound
of his name or not, he raised his head and
looked sadly towards them.

"Lord help him!" said two or three of the
men, "for makin' away with one poor sheep:—
what a rich man had plenty of!"

An official came across the yard to look at
their day's work, and after asking some
questions, walked away, saying, "Come along now,
the gate is open."

So, casting a backward glance at the manacled
prisoner, the men passed through an arch into
an inner court, whence the great doors opened
to let them out into the street.

The manacled man gazed after their retreating
figures, with a sigh—almost a groan—as
he thought of their return to their homes, free
and happy from their honest labour while he—-
the "rap, rap, rap, tap, tap" of carpenters'
hammers outside beat at the thought he could
not dwell upon.

There was no one with him, no one near him,
but a turnkey pacing up and down an angle of
the building; for in those days there was far
less vigilance than now. He was not confined to
his cell on this, the last day of his life, but was
permitted to walk about the quadrangles of the
prison; apart from the other criminals, however,
and securely handcuffed.

Bitter and despairing were his thoughts.
He thought of his grey-haired widowed mother,
of his stalwart young brothers, of the lads he
had played ball with, of Katie Moran, whom he
had danced with at the fair only two months ago.
Mechanically he walked across the square to the
place where the bricklayers and masons had
been busy: thinking as he did so, half
unconsciously, how large the opening was, how long
the great sewer was, and where it emptied itself.
Suddenly a thought occurred to him, making
his pale thin face flush, and his fettered hands
tremble with excitement. He turned sharply