the dingy iron tint that marks the approach of the season of desolation. It was the still hour of evening. The exercises of the day had concluded in the Irish camp, and an interval of comparative quiet had succeeded the tumult and bustle of afternoon drill. Soldiers in all the variety of a negligent undress were lounging on the slopes of the hill occupied by the army of O'Neill. Snatches of songs, bursts of gay laughter, or the noisy disputes of gamesters quarrelling over their games, broke in at times upon the stillness. Occasionally, too, were heard the shriller voices of the women of the camp who stopped as they went upon their errands to reply to the compliments of the lounging soldiers. Peaceful light-heartedness seemed the prevailing spirit in this school of war.

A wooden building rather roughly constructed crowned the hill. At an open window which commanded a view of the scene we have been describing, lay the Chieftain of Ulster. He was stretched upon a kind of rude sofa. His face was colourless, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken, yet strangely large and lustrous. His hand, once sunburnt and muscular, rested white and bony, on his breast.

By his couch sat a man advanced in years, with features which marked a character of mingled gentleness and energy, of tender feeling and high courage. His costume was an odd mixture of the ecclesiastical and the military, and left the observer in doubt to which of the two professions the wearer belonged. He was watching the motions of the pale form beside him with a touching look of sorrow and affection.

The eyes of the invalid were turned on the fair landscape before him. Again and again they travelled over the graceful undulations of the rich plain below, and traced the silver pathway of the Foyle from the spot where it lost itself in the broad estuary to the point where it hid its folds in the dark woods. The attention of the sick chieftain was called from this monotonous occupation to a group of his soldiers who were indulging in a noisy game of romps on the declivity of the hill. He watched their vigorous and agile movements with wistful gaze, and then turning his languid eyes on his own feeble limbs, he sighed deeply.

"Repining again ?" asked his companion, gently. "You suffer

much."

"Ay, my lord, in body much, but more in mind. The sight of the gambols of yon hardy fellows rouses the spirit of impatience in me. I am disposed to forget your lessons and to curse the fate against which I can no longer struggle. O God! that I could only borrow the strong limbs and fresh blood of some of these sturdy churls for one last effort before I die."

"Despair not, my son," said his monitor, meekly; "you may yet enjoy those blessings without borrowing them."

"Do not deceive yourself, my lord; me you cannot deceive. It is never to be. The leaven of death is in my veins. I shall never wield a sword or mount a steed again."

A tear stood in the bold, bright eye of O'Neill's companion; and red in a broken voice:

"Do not say it, Eoghan. You are the stay of Ireland and of her Faith; the God of both will not take you away."

The sufferer shook his head doubtingly. "No one man is necessary to such a cause,' ," he replied. "My But it may be given me, before the end, to do another cause for which we both have lived, and for which we Said you not the envoys of Ormonde come hither

fate is sealed. service to the both may die. to-day ?"

"I said so; I expect every moment to hear them announced." "And your counsel is that they should be graciously received?" "I do most earnestly advise it."

"My lord, you set me a hard task. They have called me traitor, outlaw, rebel, and from their mock parliament in Kilkenny have traduced my name before the country, and hurled at me every dart of ignominy their cowardly hands dared wield. They have done me wrongs which even on the threshold of the grave, where I am now standing, I cannot bring myself to pardon.”

"You speak not like yourself, Eoghan," said his adviser, mildly. "Drive away these bitter thoughts. You have sacrificed much for our country and our faith, sacrifice to both this resentment, which, I admit, has been well provoked."

"But wherefore this alliance with Ormonde? Do not our present allies offer us fairer terms than this beggarly representative of a crownless king? They offer us liberty for our religion, and they will put us in possession of the lands which our gracious sovereign, as we have been taught to call him, took away from us. My Lord of Ormonde does not bid as high as General Monck, and is certainly not as honest a man."

"Traitorous subjects are never faithful allies," returned the other. "You cannot rely upon the promises of Monck or Coote."

"They will bear comparison with Ormonde," replied O'Neill, "and will suffer little by it. We have found them undissembling enemies, but not perfidious friends. Neither friend nor foe will be able to give this character of James Butler."

"I will not argue the point with you," said his companion; "but know you, the power they serve will never ratify their terms. It is useless to stipulate for freedom of our religion with Coote or Monck, or even Cromwell himself; their concessions would be disavowed by the Parliament, however honestly made by them. And if you are not yet persuaded, let me add an argument to which there is no reply. The instructions of his Holiness are peremptory. We are to attempt nothing prejudicial to the crown of England. He disapproves of our treating with the rebel Parliament or its delegates, and would have us break off all negociations with them."

"His Holiness interferes in behalf of a worthless ally," observed O'Neill, bluntly.

"Not to gain a new alliance does the Holy See act thus. It is to maintain the sacred rights of royalty. Do you not perceive that there is a spirit abroad which rebels against the divine prerogatives of kings, and seeks to make the people the depository of all authority?"

"My Lord," broke in O'Neill, "I have no head for abstract

theories. I care not a jot who be the rulers of England, provided they do not use their power to tyrannise over us. Yet will I obey the commands of his Holiness. I have done so hitherto, and that when the risks were great; I will do so to the end. In this case, I act against my own judgment. I love not to be a prophet of evil, but I cannot help foreseeing that Cromwell will conquer in the end. I would willingly make my peace with him now, if it might be, and leave Ormonde and his friends to their fate. But since his Holiness will have it otherwise, and since you, as I perceive, have been influenced to form a judgment other than mine of his Excellency of Ormonde, it shall be as you desire. Let his messengers come, they shall have a reception much better than they deserve."

"Heaven bless your obedience, Eoghan," ejaculated his companion, "and reward this victory over yourself by a triumph over your foes!"

The invalid relapsed into silence, and resumed his listless occupation of gazing out upon the plain.

Suddenly he raised his head and listened attentively.

"I hear the tramp of horses." he said; "our visitors are coming. I will see them at once. I can meet them now. Sit by, and be wit

ness how I shall keep my resolution."

He waited impatiently till a servant entered to announce Colonel Daniel O'Neill.

"Bid him come," answered the invalid.

In a few moments a tall and handsome youth, of slight but graceful figure, entered the room.

"Welcome! right welcome, Daniel!" said the sick man, stretching out his wasted hand, "even though you come as the messenger of the Sassenach. How has it fared with you in the camp of the south ?"

"With me all has gone well-but thyself?"

"Even as you see me, boy; losing my hold on earth. His Excellency's commissioners have accompanied you?"

"They wait without."

"Pay your respects to my Lord of Clogher, and then bid them hither. They shall have my answer at once.'

The young soldier turned towards the prelate, of whose presence he had been unconscious, bent his knee, kissed the hand extended to him, and then left the apartment.

He returned accompanied by two gentlemen, whom he presented to his uncle as Mr. Talbot and Mr. Nugent, the delegates of his Excellency the Marquis of Ormonde.

"You will pardon my not paying due honour to such distinguished visitors," said O'Neill, with a politeness which but thinly veiled the bitterness of his mind. "My ailments prevent me doing the reverence I owe."

"We are charged to express to you his Excellency's most sincere sympathy," began the spokesman of the deputation, "and we beg to add to it our own."

"I am deeply sensible of his Excellency's goodness," returned

O'Neill, in the same tone as before. "Has it pleased him to send me any further message ?"

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Yes; the purpose of our coming is to remove the misunderstanding that has made you his antagonist. The fatal breach between you and him weakens a cause which both are interested in promoting. He has such confidence in your skill, and in the efficiency of the forces under your command, that he believes he could hold the country against the whole rebel faction if you consented to aid him."

"His Excellency's opinion of my modest merits is infinitely flattering," replied O'Neill, little mollified by the compliment. "It only surprises me that he can find so much to praise in one whom he so lately pronounced a rebel and a traitor."

"We have learned that this censure was foolish as it was undeserved," returned the envoy. "No one feels this more than his Excellency. You must consent to make allowance for the bitterness of party feeling. He, on his side, is disposed to forget everything which could trouble a friendship so necessary to the country."

"Herein his Excellency doth display a truly forgiving disposition," remarked O'Neill, sarcastically. "But does the fulness of his bounty not extend itself beyond a pardon for past offences? Dare I and my rebel forces, if we consent to fill the gap made in his Majesty's loyal army at Rathmines, hope for any further mark of the Viceroy's favour ?"

"He bids you name yourself the conditions on which you wil! join him."

"I have named them to him ere this," replied O'Neill, with kindling eye and quickening utterance. "They are those for demanding which I was proclaimed a traitor."

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We are empowered to grant them." "All-lands, rank, title, army?"

"All."

"Then further negociations are superfluous. I will lead my forces southwards. Let his commissioners meet me on the way. As soon as the articles are signed I will unite my troops to his. His Excellency is, I presume, hard pressed. What does Cromwell ?"

"Still lies with his army outside Dublin preparing for an attack on Drogheda."

"Drogheda will fall," said O'Neill. "Pray God it be only ruin Cromwell makes."

"WH

WAITING.

BY ALICE ESMONDE.

HY do you walk out there by the shore, Reading the blue skies, watching the foam, Chilled with the night-winds, wet with the spray? Come with me, poor woman, back to your home."

She looked on the waves, and looked to the sky,
And she pressed her brow with her trembling hand:
That bright star shone when my child sailed out;
I said I would meet him here on the strand.

They say he's dead, but I never heed,
And they speak of a wreck far out at sea;
But what did I do to those angry waves
That they'd take my one only child from me?

'Tis six long years, and he comes not back—
Six long, long years is my boy away-
And I watch the stars and I watch the sea,
And I wait till his ship comes, night and day.

The wild waves whisper and call his name,
And a music swells on the rising tide;
Should you ever meet with him out beyond,
Will you say I'm waiting, the strand beside?

He has deep blue eyes, and his hair is brown,
And his smile is sweet, and his look is mild;
Oh! do not blame me. Six long years gone-
And he was my one and my only child.

He loved me well, and he loved the waves,
But he loved them more, or we'd never part;
I only smile when they say he's drowned,
For the sea came first in my poor boy's heart.

They're not so cruel, those starlit waves,
As to take and kill him out far away.
Should you ever meet with him there beyond,
Say his mother waits through the night and day.

And they think I'm cold and lonesome here--
Walking away by the shore so wild-
Watching the stars and watching the sea,
And waiting still for my only child.