The voice broke down in a sob, and he hid his face against his companion's shoulder. "My poor fellow!" said Ahearne, slowly. I don't doubt he knows all about it now, and has forgiven what there was to forgive, long ago. Go on what did you do then ?"" I suppose I lost all consciousness of time. I couldn't have told whether five minutes or five hours had passed, when I seemed to come to myself with a start and knew there was no hopethat he was dead. It must have been a long time though, for the light had changed and the air was growing damp and chilly, and when I felt his limbs they were already stiff and cold. His face was not dreadful to look at-it had not been injured, except for that black bruise on the temple-the eyes were closed, and the expression very peaceful. I think I must have been off my head for a little . . . well, well, never mind; I came to at last, and knew there was no hope he was dead. 66 as far under as I could. . . and then I built up loose stones round it till it was quite hidden. Then I went back to see if there was any trace of blood on the stones. I did not think there was, for, though the skin was off in some places, the wound had not bled much. But in my insane fright I thought there might be. I crawled along with my face close to the ground, grasping and rubbing at every dark spot I saw; but I could find nothing. Then, all of a sudden, I felt that I was utterly tired out. It wouldn't do to faint and be found there I must go on as best I couldanywhere, only not back to Rothiemurchus. I don't know to this day where I wandered to; it was a lonely cabin hidden away among the hills; I fancy there was an illicit still connected with it, but of course I asked no questions and the people asked none of me. They sheltered me and were kind to me. Since then I've wandered up and down the country, sometimes working as a cattle-drover, once as a dockhand in Glasgow, sometimes herding with tramps and sleeping in the workhouse . till at last I drifted here. Sometimes I wonder I haven't gone to the bad altogether; at least you'll say, perhaps, I have, but . "No. I know what you meau. Being down on one's luck isn't the same as going to the bad. And I think know what, in God's mercy, kept you back." "What?" "Wasn't it the thought of-of your dead friend ?" And then a horrible dread came over me a madness of fear-worse than the other. What if they were to find me alone with the body? What account could I give at the inn? Who would believe my story? I could not think clearly, but it all rushed on my "Just that. I thought . . . well, brain together: they would think I I can't express it. but if it had had murdered him for his money. Of not been for that I should have been course I lost my head completely, or I utterly desperate. Now you know it should have known I was doing the all. I've often wondered whether you most idiotic thing a man could do; would speak to me, if-” but my one idea then was to hide the body and destroy all traces. I never had any great muscular strength; but just then, in the terror and excitement, I felt as if I were made of iron. I got Lyndon's body on my shoulders, and carried it for some yards, to the foot of a large rock with an overhanging "Is it speak to you, alanna? Why, it makes no difference at all in the world, except"-he went on in a lower tone-" to make me want to help you more than ever." Then told you? you believe what I've "I do that every word." 66 Carrington's health had been failing, more or less, ever since the evening of that conversation on the Ladebraes. At last he broke down altogether, though he struggled on as long as he could. Then Pat Finnerty'-who spent so little of his pay that he was popularly supposed to have a hoard of gold coins in some secret hiding-place in the cliffs, or, according to another version, a hundred pounds in the bank -got him removed from the bothy to a room he had taken in the town, and hired a woman to look after him while he himself was at work. Whenever he was at home he watched beside him tenderly and untiringly, and after he had been paid off on the railway line he gave up most of his time to him. Now and then he got odd jobs of work here and there, but he was the less dependent on these, since not only was there some foundation for the wild reports of his fabulous savings, but he bad brought with him from Ireland a small reserve fund, which was still untouched. The extra expenditure would not be needed long. The poor fellow was sinking fast; he had not much of a constitution, to begin with, and toil, hard fare, exposure, and mental distress had done their work. Ahearne could not regret it muchCarrington himself looked forward to the end with such an infinite sense of rest and relief. His friend had been somewhat puzzled when George, after telling his story, had asked for his ad vice. He saw little hope of his ultimate escape from the arm of the law so long as he remained in Scotland, for the police were still on the alert, though not much was said about the matter in print; and he dared not advise Carrington to give himself up, fearing that, with appearances so terribly against him, there could be no hope of a favorable issue to the trial. He had half formed a wild and vague plan of smuggling George over to Ïreland, and hiding him away in some recess in the Kerry mountains; but it was hazardous, especially for a man in broken health, and, before he had elaborated it sufficiently to mention it to his friend, Destiny had stepped in with a surer solution of the problem. Now that the tragic side of life had once more been forced on his attention, Ahearne was tant soit peu ashamed of the freak which had brought him hith. er, and into which he had flung his whole energies for the time being with something like a schoolboy's ardor. Still, it had resulted in his being able to hold out a helping hand to this poor fellow-mortal, and, so far, he could not complain. * 66 * * * * The little room, in one of the wynds" leading out of Market Street, faced eastward, and, moreover, the light was shut out from it by a blank wall opposite. Coming in out of the glow and glory of an autumn sunset, Lawrence Ahearne could at first see nothing; he only heard a faint voice calling out of the gloom, "Is that you, old fellow ?" "How do you feel now ?" asked the other, with a sudden pang of self-reproach. "Is it long you've been awake?" "Oh, no! I slept beautifully till a few minutes ago, and I feel-I can't tell you how-so much better; no pain, and quite clear in my head.' Ahearne went nearer and took his hand. His eyes were used to the dimn light now, and he looked anxiously and searchingly into Carrington's face. Carrington lifted his thin hand and laid in on his friend's arm. "Don't you be afraid," he said, softly. "I'm not deceiving myself. I've no hopes of getting better. I ex pect this means that the end has come, and I'm very glad it should come like this." He lay still, looking up into the quaint, rugged face he had learned to love beyond all other things on earth, and smiled with a wonderful gladness and content. "I want you to promise me one thing. When I'm dead, if you should hear of any one being arrested for for Lyndon's death, will you tell them what you know ?" Ahearne readily promised. Oh, no, no!" cried Carrington, with an accent almost of pain. "I don't want you to tell me anything unless you wish. I was only teasing you, old chap! After all, if you hadn't come here, what should I have done?" "If I've been of any use to "I used to see the papers when I alanna, I don't regret it. Yes, you could. I saw they were after me, and Let's all over and done with now. our last night together, I guess. have a jolly talk." Ahearne tried to answer, but only choked. "Oh! come now, it isn't as bad as all that! Didn't you as good as tell me the other night that it was by far the best thing that could happen to me? I thought you were right then, and I do now. And just think of all the bother that will be saved you. Why, you're getting quite worn out with work and watching. There, then, do let's talk of something else. Tell me what you really came to St. Andrews for, you old humbug." Father Lawrence Ahearne looked up, somewhat taken aback by this sudden thrust, with-in spite of his real grief-a comical expression of dismay, at which Carrington laughed feebly. Yes," he went on, as soon as he got back his breath, "you don't imagine I ever took you for a real navvy? Well, there's not much to be said on that score-there were plenty of men in the same case, and the fewer questions asked the better. But nobody not the greatest ass that ever livedcould have been with you as I have, and have thought you were that sort " suppose it's true. There's a divinity that shapes our ends. . . . I didn't know what I was doing when I set out -no more I did! Well, here goes! Are you comfortable ?" He smoothed the pillow and arranged the bedclothes for his patient, and then began at the beginning and told him all-of the home in the Kerry mountains, the peasant father and mother, and the boy who had picked up a bit of schooling somehow, and was forever reading all the books he could lay hands on; of the pride they took in their "scholard," and the sacrifices they made to send him to Maynooth; how they wanted him to be a priest, and how he could not bend his thoughts to what seemed to him a maimed and prisoned life; and how, not satisfied with Maynooth, he tried for a Trinity College scholarship, and won it, and took a brilliant degree, and was looking forward to a fellowship, with perhaps a professorship in the distancewhen the crash came. the daughter of one of the professors, and for her bright eyes he forgot everything-even the Church he had been brought up in-and would have broken with father and mother and all the associations of his youth, only she jilted him (so the world put it; he never blamed her, even in his thoughts, putting everything down to his own blind infatuation) and married the rich brewer's son. It was Then he went back to Kerry, humbled and broken-hearted, and for a time no man heard his name or knew what had become of him. Years after, rumors reached his old college that he had taken priestly vows and gone abroad. Later on, he was heard of now here, now there-once as librarian at the Vatican, then teaching at a college in France, then again as the parish priest of his native village in County Kerry. His name found its way into the proceedings of learned societies and on to the title-pages of magazines. Then he got into trouble with his spiritual superiors during the time of the Land League agitation, and a year or two of tracasseries and heartbreak ended in his complete disappearance. That is the bare outside chronicle of the life whose inner history he now related to Carring ton. Carrington listened with the deepest interest. He seemed wonderfully bright and full of life to-night; only, now and then, his weakness overcame him, and he closed his eyes and lay back exhausted for a few minutes. "It's quite like a novel," he said at last, when the Irishman had finished. "And what are you thinking of doing now? I suppose I ought to call you Father Ahearne, but--" I'm For my sake don't, my boy! only too glad to forget it myself. Don't let's go into that question. Our Church is the grandest Church in the world-I ought to say, the only one, for, of course, from a Catholic point of view, the others don't count-but, somehow, the less I hear about her and her hierarchy, and her organization, and her dogmas, and her all the rest of it, the better I like it and the better Christian I am. It's very little I can find about it all in the dear old book over there. Carrington laughed-a very weak little laugh this time.. . . . "I'm thinking what an orthodox Roman you are, old man !'' "Roman, is it? But-there, I can't argue it out. My head and heart are in such a muddle over it that I don't know clearly what I do think, let alone putting it into words. I'd give anything to get away from herefrom Europe and civilization altogether, from bishops and confessionals and newspapers and churches, and the Sacred College, and things going wrong in poor old Ireland that I can do nothing toward putting right. And, faith, why shouldn't I? I'm not a "Do you know I believe you're just the man for that sort of thing? And you'll do it too! Some day you'll be packing up your violin and those two books of yours-your Greek Testament and your Mangan-and you'll disappear like Waring in that bit of Browning's. The night had worn on. The room was in black shadow-all but the little space illuminated by the candle on a table by the bedside. Carrington's face looked very white as the light fell on it. "I've been letting you talk too much," said Ahearne, remorsefully. "No-it really did me good-but I'm a little tired now. Come closer. Don't let go my hand, will you ?", More than that the strong arms were under him, and held him and up, through the gathering darkness he heard the gentle voice at his ear. "Don't be afraid, alanna !" "No." His head sank restfully on Ahearne's shoulder. "To think it does seem strange to think seeing Lyndon again. of "Can I do anything for you, my boy?" No, thanks was that again . you were playing the other night. . . the words, I mean? . .” By some quick instinct Ahearne guessed what he meant. He had more than once played Mozart's Requiem to him. The deep, sweet accents fell on the fort you for all you have suffered. stillness :We shall meet again. There was a long sigh, as of one sinking to sleep after release from pain. The candle had burnt down and was flickering in the socket. It lasted just long enough for -Lawrence Ahearne to close his comrade's eyes. Pie Jesu Domine, FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES. MESSRS. W. & R. CHAMBERS are going to issue the first volume of a revised edition of the "Life and Works of Robert Burns," by Dr. Robert Chambers, which is being prepared by Mr. William Wallace. While the plan of the original work has been adhered to, there will be some new features. Several portions of the biographical narrative, more particularly those dealing with Burns's life in Irvine and his intention to leave for Jamaica, have been recast and rewritten. The question of his ancestry has been treated exhaustively, and his religious views will be more fully elucidated than they have hitherto been. Fresh information upon the episode of High. land Mary will be incorporated, and many letters and poems which did not appear in the corresponding volume of the previous edition. Another peculiarity of this reissue will be the abundant notes attached to both poems and letters. It is being illustrated by Scotch artists. CARLYLE'S IMMORTALITY.—John Morley has compared Carlyle to a spiritual volcano. May we say further that his action can never become extinct? Is it not probable that as the artificiality of life increases, the teaching of Carlyle, the lover of realities, will attain ever greater value? For in these days of physical, mental, and moral exhaustion, the influence of Carlyle, with his devotion to the "Beneficent Whip" and " Masterful Mind," can only be stimulating. In the days of recuperation, which may follow with the turn of the pendulum, the world will listen with eager sympathy to Carlyle, as with ruthless severity he denounces those who tamper with fact, hiding themselves from life's sternness under a tissue of shams and lies. Carlyle's immortality does not rest only upon his destructive criti cism of life's vanities. We owe to him, in the second place, our appreciation of the rights of democracy. It was Carlyle who preached that a world is all out of joint unless the best men rule, and that class distinctions and conventional privileges should be of no real account to serious, honest thinkers. This is the note which he sounds in his "Past and Present," and it echoes and re-echoes in all his works. With the progress of time this teaching will win to itself even greater credit, and therefore we may maintain that Carlyle's influence will permanently endure. In the "French Revolution" Carlyle showed that the upper classes are helpless, unless they keep up friendly connections with the people. Many of us believe that a period of anarchy can only be averted, in our present state of civilization, by the blending of class with class in human sympathy and in human hon. esty. If the contrasts between riches and poverty are to become ever more striking, the sight of unthinking idlers and of callous pleasure-seekers will inflame the minds of desperate men and women with ever greater effect. Then will men look to Carlyle for help and advice in postponing their doom. Carlyle's third claim to immortality rests upon his gospel of work. He, better perhaps than any other writer, taught that work alone justifies existence and develops character. His invec. tives against the idle and luxurious have not been surpassed in fierceness by any modern socialist. In the fourth place, we are indebted to Carlyle for forcing us to reverence that which is too grand for us to comprehend.Parents' Magazine. PAUL VERLAINE died recently at his rooms in the Rue Descartes, at Paris, in the fiftysecond year of his age. He was born, March |