what was passing in her mind; her sister, however, suspected, from the stolen glances she now and then threw over at the performer, that she was engaged in the act of stereographing the whole tableau, which subsequently proved to have been the case.

When the piece of music had been finished, O'Conor thanked her ladyship for the great entertainment she had afforded them, and ventured to solicit a song; to which she replied, that she would be most happy to accede to his wishes, but feared she could not do so without her book: however, on turning over the pages of one belonging to Eliza, she discovered what she called a sweet little song of Braham's, which she would attempt, O'Conor, as in duty bound, placing himself beside her to turn the leaves; it was called "Lilla, come down to me," the refrain of the song consisting in the lady love being thrice invoked to comply with her lover's request.

In order to impart to it that pathos which would best express the feelings of the anxious lover, the performer, when she came to this invocation, repeated it thrice in the most piano style, each time swaying herself from side to side; it, however, sometimes happens that some mal-adroit circumstance of the commonest and vulgarest kind will dissipate the most entrancing illusions, and destroy the best designed effects.

The unhappy music-stool, which had for some

time been emitting sundry indications of the torture it was undergoing from the great superincumbent weight laid on it, at length broke out at each sway, and gave a loud corresponding creak, as if it had been the Amata within expressing assent; even the grave Ierne could not suppress a smile; but when at length, in the concluding burden of the song, the voice being exalted and the sway proportionably increased, the unlucky stool lost its centre of gravity and came, with its occupant, toppling over, fortunately in the direction of the attendant, who caught the lady in his arms, Eliza M'Carthy lost her centre of gravity also at the same time, and burst into a roar of laughter.

The lady, either struck with the ridiculousness of the accompaniment and denouement of her song, or justly incensed at the risibility it had occasioned, jumped up from the piano, and declared she must be off, begging Mr. O'Conor to ring for the kerridge et cheveux; in the act of so doing a paper fell from the music-book, which at a glance she discovered was a set of verses in pencil, addressed "to Eliza." 'Twas a glorious opportunity for retaliating on her mirthful friend.

"What on earth have we here?" she cried, rushing from the piano into the middle of the room; "a set of love verses, I declare, addressed to Eliza."

The tables were indeed turned, as did also Eliza's face turn to a deep crimson. She made a rush over to seize them, but Lady Bradshaw made as hasty a retreat towards O'Conor, and putting the paper into his hand, entreated him to read them.

"Oh! not for the world," cried Eliza; "they are really not worth reading; and so far from anything of the enamoured style, they are more in the elegiac."

"Then," ," said O'Conor, "you can have the less objection to their being read. I'll put it to the vote."

There being but the one dissentient voice, O'Conor, to be out of the reach of the owner's hand, which still attempted to snatch them, got up on a chair and read out as follows:

"TO ELIZA.

"There is a gentle, joyous spirit,
That in a fragile frame exists;
"Twill surely heaven's bliss inherit,
When that frame in slumber rests.

"Down the stream of life's quick current,
In peaceful quietude it floats,

For sweet 's the lesson it has learnt,

And sure's the end that course denotes.

"But far be that sad winter from her,

When age shall chill her genial powers;

O'er her head may many a summer
Roll its bright and roseate hours.

"And whensoe'er death rends asunder
The mortal from the spirit blest,
The tombstone shall declare, that under
peace Eliza's ashes rest.”

In

แ "Well," said Eliza, "now that you have all heard them in that shabby manner, where's the love in them?"

66

Oh, not much, child, I grant you," said Lady Bradshaw; "'twas your own confusion that betrayed a guilty conscience. They are

very different from those I was in the habit of getting in my early days, when I was young and very pretty, let me assure you-heigh ho! Sir Simian often sent them to me anominously, signed Orlando l'Amoureux.?' I knew well where they came from; and had he sent me anything in that whimpering style, reminding me of my latter end, I'd have pitched them to JERRY-GO and packed him off to the ANTIPOPES. And now, mes chères, I must wish you a good day; I expect, my dear Ierne, that you'll not disappoint me; I'll send the servant for your guitar on the morning of the concert, as I must have all my instruments collected in the Salle de Concert."

O'Conor handed her into the kerridge, and shortly after withdrew himself, promising to renew his visit on the following day.

CHAPTER IX.

"The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my

battlements."

Macbeth.

"Harke! the raven flappes his wing,

In the brier'd dell below;
Harke! the death-owl loud doth synge
To the nightmares as they goe."

CHAUCER.

CIRCUMSTANCES, which we have somewhat overreached, oblige us to revert to a former stage of our narrative, a relation of which is necessary to its elucidation.

On either side of the entrance into the old Convent-alley before described, there stood two antiquated, dingy-looking houses; that on the right being occupied by a widow woman named Greene, who kept a small huckstry and grocer's shop in the basement story, and managed by industry and economy to rear and maintain a large family. The opposite one was kept by a woman of a very different character-a widow