strong in himself, for he had the sickness too;
though he recovered from it, and always did
his best to earn an honest penny wherever he
could. I often wanted my mother to let me
go in her stead and bring back the load; but
she never would hear of it, and kept me at
home to mind the house and little Mary. My
poor pet lamb! 'twas little minding she
wanted. She would go after breakfast and
sit at the door, and stop there all day, watching
for her mother, and never heeding the neighbours'
children that used to come wanting her
to play. Through the live-long hours she
would never stir, but just keep her eyes fixed
on the lonesome boreen;* and when the
shadow of the mountain-ash grew long, and
she caught a glimpse of her mother ever so
far off, coming towards home, the joy that
would flush on the small patient face, was
brighter than the sunbeam on the river. And
faint and weary as the poor woman used to be,
before ever she sat down, she'd have Mary
nestling in her bosom. No matter how little
she might have eaten herself that day, she
would always bring home a little white bun for
Mary; and the child, that had tasted nothing
since morning, would eat it so happily, and
then fall quietly asleep in her mother's arms.

*By-road.

At the end of some months I got the sickness
myself, but not so heavily as Richard
did before. Any way, he and my mother
tended me well through it. They sold
almost every little stick of furniture that was
left, to buy me drink and medicine. By
degrees I recovered, and the first evening I
was able to sit up, I noticed a strange wild
brightness in my mother's eyes, and a hot flush
on her thin cheeks—she had taken the fever.

Before she lay down on the wisp of straw
that served her for a bed, she brought little
Mary over to me: "Take her, Sally," she
said—and between every word she gave the
child a kiss—"Take her; she's safer with
you than she'd be with me, for you're over
the sickness, and 'tisn't long any way I'll be
with you, my jewel," she said, as she gave the
little creature one long close hug, and put her
into my arms.

'Twould take long to tell all about her
sickness how Richard and I, as good right
we had, tended her night and day; and how,
when every farthing and farthing's worth we
had in the world was gone, the mistress herself
came down from the big house, the very day
after the family returned home from France,
and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and
everything we could want.

Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my
mother took the change for death; her senses
came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat
up straight in the bed.

"Bring me the child, Sally aleagh" she said.
And when I carried little Mary over to her,
she looked into the tiny face, as if she was
reading it like a book.

"You won't be long away from me, my own
one," she said, while her tears fell down upon
the child like summer-rain.

"Mother," said I, as well as I could speak
for crying, "sure you know I'll do my best
to tend her."

"I know you will, acushla; you were always
a true and dutiful daughter to me and to him
that's gone; but, Sally, there's that in my
weeney one that won't let her thrive without
the mother's hand over her, and the mother's
heart for her's to lean against. And now—."
It was all she could say: she just clasped the
little child to her bosom, fell back on my arm,
and in a few moments all was over. At first,
Richard and I could not believe that she was
dead; and it was very long before the orphan
would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers;
but when the neighbours came in to prepare
for the wake, we contrived to flatter her
away.

Days passed on; the child was very quiet;
she used to go as usual to sit at the door, and
watch hour after hour along the road that
her mother always took coming home from
market, waiting for her that could never
come again. When the sun was near setting,
her gaze used to be more fixed and eager;
but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes
used to droop like the flowers that shut up
their leaves, and she would come in quietly
without saying a word, and allow me to
undress her and put her to bed.

It troubled us and the young ladies greatly
that she would not eat. It was almost
impossible to get her to taste a morsel; indeed
the only thing she would let inside her lips
was a bit of a little white bun, like those her
poor mother used to bring her. There was
nothing left untried to please her. I carried
her up to the big house, thinking the change
might do her good, and the ladies petted her,
and talked to her, and gave her heaps of toys
and cakes, and pretty frocks and coats; but
she hardly noticed them, and was restless
and uneasy until she got back to her own low
sunny door-step.

Every day she grew paler and thinner, and
her bright eyes had a sad fond look in them,
so like her mother's. One evening she sat at
the door later than usual.

"Come in, alannah" I said to her. "Won't
you come in for your own Sally?"

She never stirred. I went over to her;
she was quite still, with her little hands
crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on
her chest. I touched her—she was cold.
I gave a loud scream, and Richard came
running; he stopped and looked, and then
jurst out crying like an infant. Our little
sister was dead!

Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but
it was short. You're gone home to Him
that comforts as a mother comforteth. Agra
machree, your eyes are as blue, and your hair
as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they
were when you watched by the cabin-door;