RUINS.

PART IV.

FLORENCE O'DONNELL.

"WHY, then, what's come over the ould place to turn yer heart agin it, Miss Florry? Isn't the house the same you were born in (barrin' what's fallen down of it)? And ain't the big ould trees the very ones you danced under, for many a long midsummer-day, without trouble or sorrow (bad cess to it)? An' the poor masther, ain't he the same, when he's himself? and sure it's quare if the people's not the same, true in heart to the ould family? And if the dear old masther (God rest his soul in glory hereafter !) was to be taken, still, my darlint young lady, what need 'ud there be for you to go into furrin parts, where, as in Portugale, though I'll allow they're the best o' Christians, still they're strangers? Strangers! oh, but it's a could word!-like the sough of the winter's wind. I never could warm to furriners, only when they're ship

wrecked on the cruel rocks forenint us; then, to be sure, the pity comes over one; and the greater the trouble the greater the love,-and why not?—sure it's all we have to give."

"Just so, all we have to give," replied Florence O'Donnell to her nurse; "all we have to give!" she repeated, and her fine eyes filled with tears; "and that is the reason why, in a few months, I shall leave my native country, and never see it more!"

"Anan!" exclaimed the ould creature, looking up from her knitting; "lave ould Ireland because you have nothing to give? Why, my jewel, havn't your people been giving, giving, giving for the last five hundred years, and maybe more, until sorra a thing they've left themselves either to give or keep? And sure, darlint, you might expect a little of it back now, if you wanted it."

"From whom might I expect it?" said Florence;" from whom, nurse ?-from the cotters who lived rent-free on my grandfather's estate, and are themselves now without sufficient food to save them from starving ?-from the troops of friends who crowded here when my poor father lived his wild life, to drink claret and eat venison ?-from the scores of poor relations, who, since the O'Donnells have grown

poor, have discovered that they are more nearly related to the Donnells without the O, who happen to be rich?-from such am I to expect gifts? No, nurse, no; these crumbling walls will serve for shelter to my poor grandfather until he breathes his last; and then I will make a voyage to Portugal, and seek, with my cousin Isabel, the protection of St. Ursula, within her holy walls."

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"O Miss Florry !" expostulated the old woman, while tears fell from her eyes; sure the saints have ever a care over poor Ireland; and what would ail you-if you have a calling that way, and won't be pacified any other-to step into a convent in Kilkenny, or Enniscorthy, or Dublin itself, before going on the salt-sea, away from all who love you?"

"Who are the all?" inquired the last of her race, sadly.

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Why, sure, there's myself, and Connor the ould butler, and Norna the faithful baste, and

"And," "said Flora, smiling mournfully, "Connor, and Nelly, and Norna; and Norna, and Nelly, and Connor !"

"Well, well!" exclaimed the old servant, bursting into tears; " and what signifies it? Don't we love you with all our hearts and souls? and

sure that's better, any way, than the could winds of a strange country."

"The winds of Portugal breathe softly," said the young devotee; "softly and warmly."

"Not on you will they breathe softly and warmly," replied the nurse; "the thing that warms the wind is love."

Florence O'Donnell was born during the few minutes of a brief eclipse, and the superstition of her country declared that her life would be one of sorrow. Whether she had heard the prophecy or not, I do not know; but certainly it was fulfilled. She was one of those upon whom a shadow ever rests-who hear of sunshine, but do not feel its rays-who claim affinity with the gloomier works of naturewho form garlands of willow, and violets, and lily of the valley-who sing songs of sadness, because they echo the feeling and sensibility of their souls-whose smiles convey the idea of tears. In my young days I knew her, and she would occasionally invite me to play with her. Play with her! Child though I was, I would as soon have thought of playing with a moonbeam. I loved, however, to walk silently with her, under the old trees of the long avenue; and I would crouch by her side, while she read to her grandfather-then the most patriarchal

looking man I ever saw-the old chronicles, in which he delighted, or more frequently still the lives of the saints. And from her I learned many wailing songs and legends, (sad ones,) and to embroider-silently. But, above all, she made me think. There was a mournful history in her sweet face, blended with so much modesty, (that" shade of fine souls," as some one calls it,) that when I returned to my own home, I used to think of her for hours. I never could fancy Florence mingling with the sports or interests of the world, and I reverenced her with that simple reverence which is so true and beautiful in childhood.

The old gentleman's property had been eaten up by mortgages, and bad management, and settlements (as they were called) which ended fruitlessly; and law retainers, and poor relations, too proud to work, but not too proud to beg, His son, the father of Florence, completed the ruin; and, at the time I speak of, the O'Donnell, in the eightieth year of his age, was dying in a roofless castle, attended only by his grandchild, and two old servants, who loved him with a faithfulness I have no power to describe. Everything that could be sold had been seized on by the creditors; but, happily, the old man was unconscious of this fact,