"In the coorse of a week Oliver's wife missed him. He had not come to bed that night, and going down the stairs with a candle, she discovered the secret enthrance leading to the crypt lift open, and following in the same thrack, she came to the doore of the great vault at the ind of the passage; it was made of iron; when she put her hand on it she found it quite hot. Pushing it open, a great black raven, that had been sitting upon a black heap, flew past her. On putting the light down she discovered the body of her husband all black and charred, with a lantern in one hand and the mashing club in the other. In the middle of the vault was a pile of burnt bones still smoking, with bits of wood and pieces of burnt sacks about them. It was supposed he had been raking up all the unburnt bones, and smashing them to finish the job, when he fill from suffocation and was roasted alive. She made her way out, and had all the approaches shut up again, leaving Oliver there; nor was it iver known till she tould her son, when dying.

"She was lift with a large family. The eldest, Pethers, was called after his great-grandfather. He was a boy, and was put to school by his uncle by the mother's side; but the uncle, who was a Dublin man, refused to work the facthry. It was shut up along with the house; no one would take them; they were supposed to

be haunted. The weeds and nettles grew up in the areas about the house; the furnithur had been all sould.

"Many who climbed up to the windys on the first floore and peeped through the crevices of the closed shutters, declared that they could see ould Pethers in his study sitting smoking by the fireside, and another figure like the knave of clubs, with a similar hole in his forehead shaped like the ace of clubs, sitting smoking opposite him, both looking into one another's faces, but not saying a word.

“When young Pethers grew up, he would have nothing to do with the facthry, recollecting the story his mother tould him. He married the daughther of a rich woollen merchant in Francisstreet; but he had the same hankering afther money that all his ancisthors had. Afther his father-in-law's death, he came in for all his money and business, and dhropped the family name, calling himself Bond. But he niver would resthore the grounds to the Church, unless he was well paid for them, and so signs, it cost him dear, as I shall tell you.

"There was to be a great wool fair at Castle Dermot, and he set off there on horseback, with his money in his saddle-bags undher him; and on his return late at night, a little hearty, as he was passing the Fox and Geese Common, he was seized by four highwaymen, who robbed him of all he

had, and then brought him to the middle of the common, and tied him neck and heels to a post there. They tied his neck so tight with his own cravat round the post, that he couldn't turn his head right or lift without being choked. It turned out one of the wettest nights that iver came as black as pitch, and the wind howling fearfully. He heerd a creaking sound over his head, like rusty chains swinging backwards and forwards. The rain fell on him as if it had come out of a sieve, and at the same time he thought he felt live things dhropping on him. He roared and bawled, but no one came to him, though he heerd the sound of cars going into market. When daylight came, he cast his eye up, and there saw the body of one of the gang, that had been hung in chains, swinging over his head. again roared; the people, however, thinking it was the corpse that had come to life, hurried off as fast as they could. A party of soldiers crossing the common released him, and a car having been procured, he was brought home, but niver recovered. However, the most exthrordinary part of the story was, that the soldiers that untied him, saw a large raven sitting on the gibbet over his head, which flew on before him, as the car wint into the town.

He

"He was the father of the present Oliver Bond, who still keeps the woollen business going. He turned the house into a sthore, under pretixt

of keeping ould thrumpery in it; but there are noises heerd in it still; and I'm thinking the wicked one is at work there, in more ways than one. It was I who let Tim into the secret of the vaults undher the ould house and chapel; and I think he knows of more going on there than he'll tell, for he sits up at the skylight windy sometimes for whole nights together, watching the ould facthry. No other windy looks into the place but ours. I'm thinking, too, that the like ind will come on the present Oliver, if he doesn't give up that ould place to have a chapel built on it, as Father Brennan wants, as came on all the rest of them; but he wont without money, which neither the priest nor the congregation have."

Mrs. O'Donogho having finished her long story, rose up, and again enjoining her hostess not to "let on" a word of what she had told, hed her a good night.

CHAPTER X.

"But what trade art thou?

Answer me directly.
I can mend you.

"A mender of bad soles... Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather, have gone upon my handy-work."

Julius Cæsar.

THE Jobsons of the cobbling trade seem to have been in every age and clime a class of humorists, with something of the leaven of craziness in their composition, originating in what we can't say, unless in the crazy, unsound state of the work they are constantly engaged in-the reparation of bad soles.

The eccentricities, however, of Timothy O'Donogho were neither of a constitutional nor professional character, but simply originating in the constant excitement his mind laboured under from the use of stimulants.

Among his other calamities, he had the misfortune to fall under the ban of his Church; as he