"Ah, 'tisn't every one is like you," said Welsh,
sighing.

"Oh, sure no one will know anything in
Ameriky, Tim; that's where you're goin' I
suppose?" said Mrs. Moran, gravely and coldly.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Welsh. " I hope
so."

The good woman was far more acute than her
husband, and disliking the turn the conversation
was taking, began to introduce other topics;
but with little success, as her husband grew
sleepy and stupid, Kate sat quite silent, and
Welsh was sad. Thus they sat until twelve
had struck, and then Welsh and the farmer
rose, to walk on to the cross roads, where the
car was to be in readiness, with his relatives as
convoy and body guard.

Welsh shook Mrs. Moran's hard hand and
kissed it in the fulness of his emotion, uttering
broken words of gratitude and blessing. Then
he turned to Kate, who was weeping silently;
he strove to speak, but words failed him, and he
grasped her hand passionately and turned away.

"I'll shut the gate afther ye," said Kate,
following them out into the darkness. So she did,
and Welsh delayed a moment, helping her to
find the loop and staple, probably; though he
strove to put a few hasty words together, which
had no reference to the gate.

"Keep up yere heart, Kate, agra," he
whispered; "I'll send ye a lether whin I get
safe over, plase God!"

Welsh sailed for England in a small coasting
vessel, and thence from Liverpool, where he
remained concealed for some weeks until the
ardour of the pursuit after him had abated, he
embarked on board a fast-sailing vessel—for
there were no steamers in those days—for
America. When he landed, he sought the home
of a relative who had been settled in the new
country for some years, and, by industry and
strict honesty—for the dreadful lesson taught
him was not wasted—he very soon became
independent of his cousin, and had his own snug
house and thriving farm.

He wrote regularly to the Morans; to the
father first, then to the mother, and, lastly, to
the daughter. When he had amassed a little
money he wrote again to the farmer, telling the
astonished man his hopes and wishes concerning
Kate. Peggy Moran angrily declared her
husband to have been blind all along—as there
is no doubt he was—but she positively refused
to listen for a moment to the audacious suitor.
However, "time works wonders." Her violent
opposition died away gradually, and Kate waited
patiently. At the end of five years, her father
being then dead, she and her mother departed
for the land beyond the sea.

This true story was related to the writer by a
grey-haired widow, an Irish emigrant who had
returned, after many years, from America, to die
at home. Though her form was bent by the
weight of more than seventy years, her memory
was clear and retentive, and her voice trembled
and her dim blue eyes sparkled, as of
yore, with excitement in her recital of the
perils undergone by Welsh, the lover of her
youth, and the fond and faithful husband whose
joys and sorrows she had shared for forty years.
And now she had come home to die in the little
cottage by the river where she had first known
him, and where she had first succoured him in
the hour of his danger and distress. "On'y it's a
poor thing to think that I can't share his grave
in the churchyard where his people lie,"
concluded the widow, sadly, "but bless God, we'll
soon meet again."

HENRY THE EIGHTH'S CHIN.

SHAKESPEAKE'S play of Henry the Eighth
opens with a conversation, between the Dukes
of Buckingham and Norfolk, about the glories
of the celebrated Field of the Cloth of Gold.
And, surely, the sight must have been worth
seeing, which could have so far outshone the
ordinary pageantry of such a time, as to become
famous for ever in the annals of two kingdoms.

What was meant by the brilliant show? In
the same conversation, admiration of the
pageant itself soon gives place to disgust at
Cardinal Wolsey, as its author. We hear, that the
alliance celebrated with all this gorgeous
display had already burst like a bubble,

"For France hath flawed the league, and hath
attached
Our merchants' goods at Bordeaux."

Truly it was a very hollow affair; seen
through, perfectly well understood on both
sides to be hollow. But we must add one
comment in the interest of historic justice. The
perfidy which brought about the rupture, so
soon after these grand demonstrations of amity,
was not on the side of France.

Henry the Eighth was, at the time of the
Field of the Cloth of Gold, much younger
than we usually see him in portraits, or read of
him in history. As yet, he had not quite
acquired all that fulness of body with which
Holbein has made us familiar. Thought of
divorce had not yet occupied him. Tall,
strong, and muscular, he took part in all manly
exercises, and excelled in all. "His majesty,"
says the Venetian ambassador Giustinian, in a
despatch intended only for the eyes of his
court, "is twenty-nine years old, and extremely
handsome. Nature could not have done more
for him. He is much handsomer than any
other sovereign in Christendom; a great deal
handsomer than the king of France; very fair,
and his whole frame admirably proportioned.
On hearing that Francis the First wore a
beard, he allowed his own to grow; and, as it
is reddish, he has now got a beard that looks
like gold. He is very accomplished; a good
musician; composes well; is a most capital
horseman; a fine jouster; speaks good French,
Latin, and Spanish; is very religious; hears
three masses daily when he hunts, and