The smaller pieces of artillery maintained an almost continuous roar. Now and then their voices were drowned in the prolonged boom of the heavy siege guns, but when this sullen thunder died away the lesser engines roared out again as lustily as before.

It is exciting to witness the angry efforts man makes to wreck the stronghold in which his enemy has taken refuge-to watch the flash of the sulphurous flame-the rolling of the clouds of sulphurous smoke, to hear the roar, the hiss, the exploding crash of the iron missiles, and all the glorious din which accompanies the work of destruction. And then the pent-up enemy replies in the same tumultuous manner. His messengers pass in mid air the deadly envoys bound for the city, and, in their turn, burst and roar about the ears of the besiegers; and so the noisy game briskly goes on, and the "pomp of glorious war" is duly maintained. What recks it that behind those falling walls mangled wretches are writhing on the bloodstained pavements, dismembered by the iron fragments that fly through the air, or that under the shadow of these thundering batteries mutilated creatures are breathing forth their souls in curses or in prayer? It matters nothing. If they have fallen there are others left who will exult in the victory they have died for. "On with the game!" cries the yet unscathed enthusiast, deaf to the groans of the maimed and dying.

But the tumult of battle-strife loses its inspiriting effect when heard from a dull, dark chamber where disease has taken up his abode, and imprisoned one of his captives. It cannot kindle enthusiasm in the breast in which life is struggling to maintain itself, nor string the nerves that long illness has paralysed. Poor Kathleen listened all the morning to the sounds of the angry contest. Her brain, which had been throbbing through the night with the fever heat within it, was dazed by the incessant din. The windows shook in their frames as the savage voices of the huge guns threatened the stubborn walls. The crash of bursting shells, the noise of falling houses, and the despairing cries of children and women, came from the crowded streets along the river. The clatter of musketry, the distant note of drum or trumpet, and the nearer tramp of feet hurrying to or from the scene of combat, all broke together upon the tired brain of the weary sufferer in painful confusion, and it throbbed wilder and faster than ever.

The day advanced, but the furious cannonade abated nothing of its vigour, nor did the fever in Kathleen's veins relax anything of its wasting energy. Unable to relieve her sufferings, Mary watched in helpless agony the varying phases of her illness, smoothed the pillow which supported her head, and moistened from time to time her burning lips. The thunder of the guns had for her a significance which, fortunately, it had not for the invalid; she knew that the fate of the city was being decided, and she knew what would follow if the old walls gave way under the iron hail that was beating upon them. Often, when her sister's eyes were closed, she knelt by the bedside, and prayed that God would sustain the sadly-thinned ranks that manned the battered defences of the city. And in her prayers she

failed not to remember that there was one among the desperate defenders of those blasted walls whose safety should be specially dear to her, and she prayed that he might be saved from the death that awaited so many of his comrades.

She had been for some time on her knees by the bedside thinking thoughts such as these, with her head resting against her sister's pillow, when looking up she saw Kathleen's eyes fixed upon her, and observed her lips moving as if she spoke. The deafening boom of the guns was in her ears, and she could not catch her sister's words. Bending over her till the sufferer's hot breath warmed her cold cheek, she heard her ask:

"Why has not Captain MacDermott come? I expected he would have come to us at once."

"He cannot, Kathleen, dear. He must be there where those guns are firing."

"I hope he will not be hurt," said the child, closing her eyes wearily, and speaking as if communing with herself. "He is the only friend we have near us."

"I have been praying that he may not, Kathleen. We owe him a great deal."

"I would pray for him too, if I could; but my head aches and swims so I cannot. I have something to say to him. I wish he would come soon.'

"Be sure he will be here as soon as he can quit his post."

The child seemed satisfied with this assurance, and remained silent for a brief space.

"But if he has not received my message, or has forgotten it, and will not come till it is too late?" she asked presently, in the same uneasy tone as before.

on.

"The firing must cease soon; Kathleen, you see evening is coming He can come to us then."

"It may be too late, Mary," said the child, softly, opening her eyes and fixing them on her sister. "I am growing very weak. It tires me even to speak, and the air is growing thicker and heavier every minute. Oh, I wish very much he were here now!"

Mary could see that the child spoke with an effort, and she fancied that she perceived a dull haze settling over her bright eyes.

"What shall I do, Kathleen ?" she cried, thoroughly alarmed; she began to understand the significance of these symptoms. "O God! this is too much !" and she threw herself on her knees by the bed, weeping.

"Dearest Mary," said the child, tenderly, "I shall be very sad if you cry so bitterly. I do think God is going to take me away at last. I shall be glad to meet father and mother, but oh! I shall be sorry to part from you. You have been kind to me, Mary—so very kind— and I was always such a burden to you!"

"Oh, do not speak so, Kathleen; it will break my heart," sobbed poor Mary.

"I would stay with you, if I could, Mary," continued the child. "I do not like to leave you alone. But I think God wishes me to

go to Him. When I am in heaven, I will always keep looking down on you; and if you are in sorrow, I will pray for you, and get you out of it at once. And you must not lament too much when I am gone. It would make me sad in heaven to see you unhappy."

Mary could not master her grief sufficiently to make any answer. "My strength is nearly gone, Mary," added Kathleen, after a pause. "I should like to be able to speak to Captain MacDermott when he comes. Perhaps Shawn could find him out, and tell him how much I wish to see him.

Shawn was summoned to the apartment of his young mistress. Quick to notice anything that affected her, he perceived at once the change that had taken place since he saw her last. The muscles of his rough face were twitching violently, and he trembled strangely as he approached the bed.

Come nearer to me, Shawn," gasped the little sufferer.

With many grotesque efforts to control his emotion, Shawn did as he was desired.

"Find out Captain MacDermott, if you can, Shawn," whispered his mistress, "and ask him to come to me without delay. I have something to say to him, and it must be said soon, if it is to be said at all. Tell him this. Make all the haste you can; but take care that you are not hurt by any of the shots."

"I will, lady, I will," answered the horse-boy.

He left the room rubbing his eyes with the tattered sleeve of his worn-out tunic, and started on his errand, little pre-occupied with the thought of the dangers before him.

For a long time after he had gone no word was spoken in the apartment. Crushed by this last blow, Mary hid her face in the coverlet and silently gave vent to the sorrow that overpowered her. Kathleen, exhausted by the effort so much talking had cost her, lay with her face upturned, her eyes closed, breathing the close atmosphere of the room with slow and painful respirations.

The sun went down at last. It had been a day of dread and of suffering, but it was nearing its close. The evening clouds gathered over the hills of Clare as peacefully as was their wont, rolled up and unrolled their huge folds in the scarlet light as calmly and deliberately as usual, and from their playgrounds high up in the pure air looked down with ethereal contempt on the volumes of grosser vapour that overhung the city in the valley below them. But the golden light in which they basked gradually ceased to shine, their glittering fringes were shorn off; murky and frowning they spread themselves out like a mourning mantle over the town, and the shadow of their huge, dark wings filled it with gloom and melancholy. As they took up their stations for the night, the artillery, which all day had played upon the devoted walls, relaxed its furious energy. The discharges became less and less frequent, and finally they ceased. Silence, made doubly dreary and oppressive by contrast with the tumult that had ceased, fell upon the city. Scarcely a footfall was heard in the streets, and as yet but few of the timid burghers who had crouched in their cellars during the day would venture forth to inquire what had been the fortunes of the fight.

"The cannon have ceased, Mary," said Kathleen, opening her eyes as if awakening from a trance; "he will soon be here."

Mary started to her feet, wondering to observe that the gloom of the apartment had deepened, and that night was coming on.

"Hush!" said the child, eagerly; "I hear a horse's tramp in the street. It is surely he."

Her sister strained her ears to catch the sound. What the quick ear of the invalid had detected so soon became audible to her. A sharp sound of quickly-falling hoofs echoed from the further end of the street, and the noise approached with a rapidity which made one think the rider reckless of the safety of his steed and of his own. Nearer and nearer came the ringing sound till it rose from the pavement beneath the window. The horse was suddenly checked in his course, there was a sound as if of iron-covered hoofs slipping on the stones of the street, a clanking and rattling of iron accoutrements, a low knocking at the door of the house, and in a few minutes a heavy step was heard on the stair that led to Kathleen's chamber.

The visitor tapped gently on the panel of the door, and Mary opened it to admit him. She offered him her hand as he entered, and in a whisper bade him welcome.

"I could not come a moment sooner," he said, apologetically. "We have been under arms since sunrise. The assault might have come at any moment, we dared not stir from our posts. I came the instant my duty left me free. I did not stay to change my dress, or to wash away the traces of my day's work. Pardon me for appearing thus before you."

There was some need for the apology. The soldier was clad in complete armour, his face was blackened by the dust and smoke, and his hands bore marks of the rough services they had performed during the day.

"You have been kind as usual, Captain MacDermott," said Mary. "It is well you did not delay. Kathleen has talked of you incessantly all day. She has something, I know not what, to say to you. You have come in time to hear it from her. I fear she will not talk to us much longer."

The tears came again into Mary's eyes. MacDermott undid his helmet, laid it upon the ground, and followed the lady on tip-toe into the chamber. Kathleen greeted him with a smile as he approached the bed, a look of gladness lit up her emaciated features, and she feebly raised towards him the thin, wasted hand that lay upon the coverlet. The soldier touched with tenderness those delicate waxen fingers, and gently restored them to their place.

"I am sorry to find you so ill, Kathleen," he said, in a low voice. "I have been thinking of you ever since I got your message; but I could not come sooner."

"I know you are kind and good, Captain MacDermott," said the child. "I hope you have not been hurt by those guns that have been firing all day."

66

No, Kathleen, I am safe. You remember long ago you promised to pray for me. I fear no danger while you do so.'

"I will do it better now than ever I have done it," said Kathleen, with a quiet smile. "I am going to heaven, and there I shall be able to get what I choose for my friends on earth. There will there be no aching of my head, and no weakness and no pain to make me ever forget them."

MacDermott was acquainted with the symptoms that betoken the approach of death; he perceived that the moment when her anticipations were to be realised was close at hand. He could not venture a word which might give her a hope of life.

"God is kind to you, Kathleen; He takes you away from sight of the miseries that will crowd upon us here. If in heaven you can take an interest in the concerns of those you have left behind you, you will see objects here which will move your compassion."

"I know it," said the child; "and this makes me very sad." "Be glad, Kathleen, that you are spared what any of us would die to avoid seeing."

"How can I be glad, if Mary must suffer it all ?”

In his attempts to comfort the invalid he had forgotten to consult for her love of her sister.

"Let me whisper this in your ear," said the child, imploringly. He bent his head to catch her scarcely audible words.

"When I am dead, poor Mary will have no one to love her and no one to be kind to her. I have been only a burden to her all my life, but we have loved each other well, and we have been very happy together. I cannot leave her alone. Say, before I die, that you will protect her, and love her, and I shall be happy. You do not know how good she is, how gentle and how kind. I do not think I shall ever love any of the angels I am going to meet as I have loved her. She likes you, too, as well as I do, and will always love you as much as you deserve. I cannot speak any more; only promise this and I will not fret again."

Strange feelings agitated the heart that was covered by the breast-plate inclined over the sick bed-compassion for the poor child who gasped her dying request so confidingly into his ear, sorrow for the loss of a pure and noble heart in which he had earned a place, and yet a joy that he felt to be almost irreverent that Kathleen's latest trust had been what it was.

"I promise what you ask, Kathleen," he whispered. "I swear it on my soldier's honour; my fortune, my home, and my heart are hers. Offer them to her yourself. If she accepts your offering, I will never betray your trust."

An expression of joyous contentment spread over the features of the sick child.

"Come to me, Mary," she said, cheerfully, to her sister, who stood at some distance from the bed.

With an

Mary drew near, and gently brushed from the forehead of the dying child a lock of golden hair that had fallen across it. effort of which she had seemed incapable, Kathleen seized her hand and placed it in the smoke-begrimed hand of the soldier.

"He has promised me to love and guard you, Mary, when I am