her birth, and never left them—one of those devotees—half-friend, half-servant—which are found only among the Irish: "Mary, did you ever perceive that Lucy pressed her hand upon her heart—as—as—her mother used to do?"
"Is it her heart? Ah, then, did ye ever know any girl, let alone such a purty one as Miss Lucy, count all out twenty years without feeling she had a heart sometimes?"
The sergeant-major turned upon the faithful woman with a scrutinizing look; but the half-smile, the total absence of anxiety from her features, re-assured him; long as Mary had lived in his service, he was unaccustomed to her national evasions.
"Who was it tould you about her heart bating, masther?" she inquired.
"It was old John Coyne, who said she pressed her hand thus—"
"Is it ould John?" repeated the woman; "ould John that would sware the crosses off a donkey's back? Ah, sure! you're not going to b'lieve what ould John says."
"You think she is quite well, then?"
"She was singing like the first lark in spring after you went out, sir, and I never see her trip more lightly than she did down to the botany garden, not two minutes agone; unless you quick march, you'll not overtake her." Mr. Joyce wheeled round in his usually abrupt manner, and Mary stood at the door, shading the sun from her eyes with her hand, until he was out of sight. "I hate to have him look at me that way," she said, "seeing right through and through a body, more than what's in them! The bird of his bosom, poor man, may wear it out awhile, but not for long—and it's himself that will be lost then! But where's the good of looking out for sorrow; its heavy and hard enough when it comes: may the Lord keep it off' as long as it's good for us; and it is hard to fancy so bright a crathure marked for death."
Mary returned to her work—and the old sergeant-major overtook his daughter, just as she had lifted her hand to pull the great bell of the botanic garden. He said it
