those who observed him noticed that he had no meat with his dinner. Indeed, from that moment he lived on bread, potatoes, and cold water, and worked as few men ever worked before. - It grew to be the talk of the shop; and, now that sympathy was excited, every one wanted to help Connor. Jobs were thrown in his way, kind words and friendly wishes helped him mightily; but no power could make him share the food or drink of any other workman. It seemed a sort of charity to him.

Still he was helped along. A present from Mr. Bawne, at pay-day, set Nora, as he said, "a week nearer," and this and that and the other added to the little hoard. It grew faster than the first, and Connor's burden was not so heavy.

At last, before he hoped it, he was once more able to say, "I'm going to bring them over," and to show his handkerchief, in which, as before, he tied up his earnings; this time, however, only to his friends. Cautious among strangers, he hid the treasure, and kept his vest buttoned over it night and day until the tickets were bought and sent. Then every man, woman, and child, capable of hearing or understanding, knew that Nora and her baby were coming.

The days flew by and brought at last a letter from his wife. She would start as he desired, and she was well and so was the boy; and might the Lord bring them safely to each other's arms and bless them who had been so kind to him! That was the substance of the epistle which Connor proudly assured his fellow-workmen Nora wrote herself. She had lived at service as a girl, with a certain good old lady, who had given her the items of an education, which Connor told upon his fingers. "The radin', that's one, and the writin', that's three, and, moreover, she knows all that a woman can." Then he looked up with tears in his eyes, and asked, "Do you wondher the time seems long between me an' her, boys?"

So it was. Nora at the dawn of day, Nora at noon, Nora at night, until the news came that the Stormy Petrel had

come to port, and Connor, breathless and pale with excitement, flung his cap in the air and shouted.

It happened on a holiday afternoon, and half-a-dozen men were ready to go with Connor, to the steamer, and give his wife a greeting. Her little home was ready; Mr. Bawne's own servant had put it in order, and Connor took one peep at it before he started.

"She hadn't the like of that in the old counthry," he said, but she'll know how to keep them tidy."

Then he led the way towards the dock where the steamer lay, and at a pace that made it hard for the rest to follow him. The spot was reached at last; a crowd of vehicles blockaded the street; a troop of emigrants came thronging up; fine cabin passengers were stepping into cabs, and drivers, porters, and all manner of employees were yelling and shouting in the usual manner. Nora would wait on

board for her husband, he knew that.

The little group made their way into the vessel at last, and there, amid those who sat watching for coming friends, Connor searched for the two so dear to him; patiently at first, eagerly but patiently, but by-and-by growing anxious and excited.

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She would never go alone," he said, "she'd be lost entirely; I bade her wait, but I don't see her, boys; I think she's not in it."

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'Why don't

you see the captain?" asked one, and Connor jumped at the suggestion. In a few minutes he stood before a portly, rubicund man, who nodded to him kindly.

"I am looking for my wife, yer Honour," said Connor, " and I can't find her."

"Perhaps she's gone ashore," said the captain.

"I bade her wait," said Connor.

"Women don't always do as they are bid, you know," said the captain.

"Nora would," said Connor; "but maybe she was left behind. Maybe she didn't come. I somehow think she didn't."

At the name of Nora the captain started. In a moment he asked:

"What is your name?

"Pat Connor," said the man.

66 And your wife's name was Nora?"

"That's her name, and the boy with her is Jamesy, yer Honour," said Connor.

The captain looked at Connor's friends; they looked at the captain. Then he said huskily, "Sit down, my man! I've got something to tell you."

"She's left behind," said Connor.

"She sailed with us," said the captain.

"Where is she?" asked Connor.

The captain made no answer.

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My man," he said, “we all have our trials; God sends them. Yes, Nora started with us."

Connor said nothing. He was looking at the captain now, white to his lips.

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we have

"It's been a sickly season," said the captain; had illness on board, the cholera. You know that." read; they kept it from me," said

"I didn't.

Connor.

I can't

"We didn't want to frighten him," said one in a half whisper.

"Did ye

"You know how long we lay at quarantine e?" "The ship I came in did that," said Connor. say Nora went ashore? Ought I to be looking for her, captain?"

"Many died, many children," went on the captain. "When we were half way here your boy was taken sick." "Jamesy," gasped Connor.

"His mother watched him night and day," said the captain, "and we did all we could, but at last he died; only one of many. There were five buried that day. But it broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the water. 'It's his father I think of,' said she; he's longing to see poor Jamesy.'

6

Connor groaned.

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Keep up, if you can, my man," said the captain. "I wish any one else had it to tell rather than I. That night Nora was taken ill also; very suddenly, she grew worse fast. In the morning she called me to her. 'Tell Connor I died thinking of him,' she said, and tell him to meet me.' And my man, God help you, she never said any thing more, and in an hour she was gone."

Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to steady himself, looking at the captain with his eyes as dry as two stones. Then he turned to his friends:

"I've got my death, boys," he said, and then dropped to the deck like a log.

They raised him and bore him away. In an hour he was at home on the little bed which had been made ready for Nora, weary with her long voyage. There, at last, he opened his eyes. Old Mr. Bawne bent over him: he had been summoned by the news, and the room was full of Connor's fellowworkmen.

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⚫ soon.

Better, Connor?" asked the old man.

"A dale," said Connor. "It's aisy now; I'll be with her And look ye, masther, I've learnt one thing, — God is good; He wouldn't let me bring Nora over to me, but He's takin' me over to her and Jamesy over the river: don't you see it, and her standin' on the other side to welcome me?" And with these words Connor stretched out his arms. Perhaps he did see Nora, Heaven only knows, and so died.

MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.

MRS. MARY MAPES DODGE.

ОCH! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, an me wastin' that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin' like a nager, for the six year I've been in Ameriky, — bad luck to the day I iver left the owld coun

thry to be bate by the likes o' them! (faix an' I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Ryan, an' ye'd better be listnin' than drawin' your remarks,) an' is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. "He'll be here the night," says she, "an' Kitty, it's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure an' it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French waiters, wid their paper collars an' brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacint an' honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen

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smilin', an' says, kind o'shcared, 'Here's Fing Wing, Kitty, an' you'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange."

-howly fathers!

Wid that she shoots the doore, an' I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up an' I niver brathe another may breath, but there stud a rale haythen Chineser a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If you'll belave me, the crayture was that yallar it 'ud sicken you to see him; an’ sorra a stitch was on him, but a black night-gown over his trowsers, an' the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, an' a black tail a-hangin' down from behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes you ever set eyes on. Och! but I was up stairs before you could turn about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, an' playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythins, an' taich 'em all in our power, the saints save us! Well, the ways an' trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on