him after her death, she related the terrible
history of seventeen years. In the
confusion and hurry of the execution, and
under the fear of an attack from the mob,
her brother had been taken down from the
hanging-place within a few minutes; and,
some time after the removal of his body to
Killowen, he gave signs of life. Aided by the
old nurse, she succeeded in slowly
restoring him; but wholly deprived of reason.
Then it was that she resolved to keep her
dreadful secret, and devote her life wholly
to him. In later years she had wished to
dispose of her property, and leave her native
country with him; but he could not be
prevailed on to go out into the daylight, or to
meet the face of a stranger. Since the nurse's
death, and the day when the woman servant
accidentally met him, she had lived alone in
the house with him. Satisfied in her own
mind that she had done right in setting her
lover free from his engagements, and bidding
him farewell, she had resolved never to see
him again; until her long continued illness,
and her anxiety for her brother's fate,
compelled her to write to him.

Robert Howley lived only a few months
after the death of the sister who had sacrificed
her love and her life for him. He was
buried beside her, in the parish church
near Killowen; the last of his unfortunate
family.

RABBIT-SKINS.

RABBITS are decidedly popular among
the Parisians, under the well-known form of
gibelottes. How many pleasant parties have
been to the Bois de Boulogne for its famous
stews of rabbits? How many couples have
enjoyed the cheap gibelotte of the Banlieu?
"We endeavoured to arrive at an estimate of
the number of rabbits consumed annually
within the fortifications; but hundreds of
thousands overpowered us. We were
attracted to the subject by the curious
stories we heard of the men who stroll about
Paris streets, buying skins. The rabbit-skin
buyers of Paris are a brotherhood apart
from the rest of the working population;
moreover they are, despite their roving
habits and the speculator's character of their
calling, an eminently moral and provident set
of men. They are all Auvergnats, and all
have one ambition, which is to return to
their native villages with money sufficient to
buy a patch of land, and to carry them in
comfort to the graveyard of the church in
which they were christened.

Those who are acquainted with the by-
ways of Paris know that there was a spot
—not far from the Pantheon—and very near
the quarter where the chiffonniers congregate
in vast numbers—devoted almost exclusively
to the rabbit-skin buyers of Paris. This
spot included nearly the entire length of the
Rue St. Jean de Lateran: but the improvements
which are now in progress in this
quarter, and which will run over some of
the most pestilent spots of the capital,
have already included the demolition of this
street; consequently, at the present time,
these prudent Auvergnats are scattered all
over Paris, in establishments where cheap
lodging is to be had. Cheap lodging they are
always determined to have, or how will the
bit of land be bought? This thirst for cheapness
has led them to band themselves into
companies of six, and to seek lodgings
where they can have one bed-room containing
three beds, and separate places where each
man may deposit his skins and other purchases.
This shelter costs them about fifty francs,
or two pounds sterling a year each. As to
food, an association of six can live cheaper
than six separate individuals—this is an
established doctrine of household economy.
They keep a box, therefore, nailed up in their
common room, wherein each man deposits
daily, a ten-sous piece. The fund thus created is
spent, in making soup twice every day, at
noon, and at six o'clock in the evening. Each
man is charged, in rotation, with the
responsibilities of the kitchen; and on his days
he returns from his business in the streets
at eleven o'clock and five o'clock, so that the
soup shall be ready when his associates make
their appearance. And then the six take
their food together—each man having his
own bread, and his own cheese, generally
sent from the beloved Auvergne. The
community of food is strictly confined to
soup; but soup is the chief sustenance.
With these prudential arrangements the
rabbit-skin buyers estimate their daily
expenses at fifteen sous each. They spend
nothing on luxuries. They are not frequenters
of Barrière balls; they are not to be found
habitually in wine shops. Occasionally some
of them may be discovered in a condition
which would not recommend them to the
good graces of Father Mathew; but these
are extraordinary occasions—most probably
one of their great sale days, when they have
realised the hoarded labour of six months.
A little excitement of this kind may well
be excused after the sober six months of
labour, and of stinted appetite, which have
preceded it.

The rabbit-skin buyer is an early riser.
He is generally off on his rounds by seven
o'clock in the morning. If he deal also—as most
of them do—in clean rags, old metal, and old
hats, he has a bag with him. He is neatly
dressed; but his thin, pale face, proclaims his
habit of stinting himself, and no less proclaims
the trade not too healthy in which he is
engaged. He generally wanders on his way, with
a careless walk, looking to the right and to
the left, for the skins which have contained
the popular gibelottes. It is amusing to
watch him when he has discovered a skin
hung out to attract his attention. He walks