The Children's Visit to the Children's Hospital.

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dead), and how Susie had hurt her back when she was very little by carrying a fat baby brother nearly as big as herself.

"I say, Eily," said Cyril, "don't we have better times at home than these poor little things? Look at this little chap here, who was born with his foot all twisted to one side! But they are getting it straight, you know. Isn't it well that it can be done ?"

Frank and Cyril sat down beside this little man, and explained to him an ingenious game which they had brought with them; while Eily found out a very delicate boy who could not lift his head from the pillow, and sitting down beside him, she opened a pretty new story-book and showed him the coloured pictures. Sylvia, in the meantime, made her way into another room, where some little girls, who were getting well and were able to be up, were playing together in a corner at the window.

near.

They hung their heads and looked very shy when Sylvia drew

"What are you playing?" asked Sylvia.

They all hung their heads very much indeed at this question, and tittered and glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes. "Do tell me," said Sylvia; "I want to play too."

They brightened up at hearing this, and one girl, taking courage, explained to the little lady that they were playing "Hospital." They had a number of tiny wooden dolls in a box, all laid up on little heaps of rags, and tucked round, and supposed to be in bed. One had a broken leg, another had a sore foot, another had a crooked back. Some of the little girls who made the play were nurses, others were the doctors who had come to visit the patients; and the great amusement was to try and remember and repeat the words and directions of the real doctors, whom the little girls saw every day. Sylvia was soon busily engaged in this play, having added a pretty doll, who made so large a patient that she had to get a separate box of her own for a bed.

"Oh, but her cheeks is too rosy!" lisped a pale-faced little sprite, who was gazing rapturously at the waxen beauty. "She isn't sick at all, but lovely and well, I'm sure."

"That is the high fever," explained Sylvia. "I know when people have fever their cheeks get very red."

"But hers is not hot like mine was," murmured the little convalescent, laying her hand lightly on dolly's cool face. "I'd rather have her well, miss, please. Do let her be well."

"What do the rest say?" said Sylvia, looking round. "Shall she be sick, or well ?"

"Well, well!" was voted by all the voices.

"Let us set her up here in this chair then," said Sylvia, “and she shall look on at the play."

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'Oh yes, and be a beautiful lady come to see the patients!" cried a little girl.

A nurse now came to bring the convalescents out to the garden, and all prepared to go except one, who looked on wistfully while the others departed.

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The Children's Visit to the Children's Hospital.

"Why do not you go?" said Sylvia, who was thinking of asking Mademoiselle if she might also go to the garden.

The little one thrust out her feet, on which were a pair of great slippers in which it was impossible she could walk.

"I have no shoes," she said. "There are none to fit me in the house. We don't have any shoes to go out in unless kind ladies send some old ones to us. I am hoping every day that some one will send in a pair that will fit me. Then I shall be able to go out to the garden."

"I am sure mine would fit you," cried Sylvia. mamma to allow me to send you a pair."

The little girl's eyes sparkled with delight.

"I'shall ask my

"Oh, thank you!" she cried. "And won't you come again and see how I can jump about the garden ?"

Sylvia gave up the idea of going to the garden now, and sat down to amuse the poor little girl who was longing to go out and could not; and when Mademoiselle was ready to go home, Sylvia could hardly tear herself away.

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" she cried, "how delightful it was! I hope mamma will send us there often. Isn't it much better than talking about finery with the Wiltons ?"

"I think the Wiltons could spare some of their fal-lals to those children," said Cyril.

"What are fal-lals, Cyril ?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh, gimcrack things-sashes and ribbons, and such nonsense. How many sashes have they each, Sylvia ?"

"I forget; an awful lot, I know."

"Well, they might do with one or two, and give something to the little patients.'

"Their old plain frocks would do to send," said Eily, "and so would ours. I am going to ask mamma if we mayn't give all the clothes we have left off."

"I have my eye on a certain pair of shoes," said Sylvia. body shall have a run in the garden in them to-morrow."

"Some

"Well, I am very glad I brought you there," said Mademoiselle. "It was good for you, and likely to be good for the little patients also, I see."

THE CRY OF THE SOULS.

BY ALICE ESMONDE.

IN the morning,

When the pure air comes unbreathed, and the fresh fields lie untrod,
When the lark's song rises upward, and the wet flowers deck the sod:
In the time of earnest praying, in the hushed and holy morn,
Hear those voices softly pleading, hear those low words interceding,
From the green graves lonesome lying,

Evermore in sad tones crying :

"Have pity! you at least have pity, you my friends!”

In the noontide,

When the hot earth almost slumbers and the tree-tops scarcely stir,
When the bee sleeps on the lily, and the hare pants by the fir;

When the stream-breeze softly cools you, and the grateful shade invites :
While the hot skies far are glowing, think of pain no respite knowing,
And those prisoned fires appalling,

And those piteous wails still calling,

"Have pity! you at least have pity, you my friends!”

In the evening,

When the long day's cares are ended, and the home-group soon shall meet,
While the silent twilight deepens and comes rest for wearied feet;
In the time of sad remembrance, give a prayer to old friends gone,
Some regret, some feelings tender, to past days and scenes surrender;
Let your heart with mournful greeting
Hear the sad refrain repeating,

"Have pity! you at least have pity, you my friends!"

In the night-time,

When the stars are set in ether, and the white moon in a cloud,
When the children's hands are folded and the golden heads are bowed;
Tell them of that fearful burning, of those souls in tortures dire:

Let their sinless hearts adoring reach Christ's throne in sweet imploring.
By those faces lost for ever,

By those smiles to greet thee never,
By the memories of past days,
And the kindness of old ways;
By the love in life you bore them.

And the tears in death shed o'er them,

By their words and looks in dying, Oh! hear those plaintive voices crying:“Have pity! you at least have pity, you my friends !”

ALL SOULS' DAY, 1875.

ALL that night Mary Dillon passed in sleepless anxiety. An undefined apprehension of coming misfortune hung over her, and made her look forward with dread to the coming of the morrow. The wind moaned round the castle walls like some weird prophet wailing over visions of approaching woes, and the waves sung a lament as if they too were in the secrets of the dismal future and were saddened by them. For hours she listened to the dirges of the winds and waters. Her sister slept, but her slumber was disturbed, and her half-uttered exclamations of terror showed that ugly spectres visited her in her dreams. After a restless night the tired watcher rose with the dawn. She threw herself on her knees before a tiny shrine of the Madonna which graced one corner of the room, and, overcome by her distress, prayed aloud to the High Queen of Heaven, whose name she bore, for strength and courage.

The sound of her voice awoke her sister.

"Are they come, Mary?" asked the child, in affright.

"No, no, all is quiet; sleep on without fear."

"Oh, I could not bear to sleep again. They are coming, they will soon be here. I have seen them riding hither, with fierce and angry faces, and red swords dripping with blood."

"Do not give credit to idle dreams, Kathleen," said her sister, reprovingly, all the while that the words of the trembling child sent a shudder through her own frame.

"Is there no way to save ourselves, Mary ?"

"Alas! Kathleen, I know of no human aid within reach. We must rely on God's protection only-but that will not fail us."

"Did you not hear it said that Captain MacDermott is not far away ?" pursued the child. "He is kind, and his soldiers are brave. Did not some one tell us that the Scots ran away from them? He would save us if he knew our distress."

"He could not do it, Kathleen," returned her sister, sadly. "General O'Neill, whom all the soldiers must obey, is not our friend."

"Oh, surely we have never injured General O'Neill," persisted Kathleen; "he would not prevent Captain MacDermott from helping us."

It was useless to reason with the frightened child. Besides, Mary did not at all feel that disapproval of the project which she expressed. It had already occurred to her own mind, but she could not resolve to adopt it. She half believed that the generosity of MacDermott would prevail over O'Neill's antipathy to her family, but, from motives of delicacy, she hesitated to put the chivalry of the soldier to the test. The weakest reasons will, however, decide us for a course which we are already inclined to follow, and so even Kathleen's arguments were enough to overcome her sister's scruples.

"I will try what can be done, Kathleen," she said; "rest thee yet a little longer, the morning air is very chill."

She lit a lamp, and by its light wrote a brief note to MacDermott, explaining the danger that threatened them. A troop of Parliamentarian horsemen was within a few hours' ride of their lands, and they were laying waste the country as they went. Aid could scarcely reach them in time to prevent the destruction of their property, but it might come soon enough to save them from the insults they had themselves to expect, if their home could be reached by the marauders. If it lay in Captain MacDermott's power to procure them this assistance, she implored him to do so. The anxiety of her father and sister as well as her own alarm would excuse this appeal to one on whom she had no claim other than that which distress ever has on generosity.

When she had finished her note, she wrapped herself in a heavy mantle and cautiously left the room. She would not make known her project to anyone, and least of all to her father. She knew it would be galling to his pride to seek help from O'Neill, who was then at feud with their house. The Ulster General had surprised the Castle of Athlone, and deprived their relative, Viscount Costello, of the command of it; but the officer to whom he entrusted the fortress was bought over by Clanrickarde, and it had passed again into the hands of its former masters. Thus O'Neill had special reasons for his hostility to the family of Dillon, exclusive of those which embittered him against all the Lords of the Pale.

With noiseless step Mary Dillon descended the staircase leading to the basement story of the castle, and, through the gloomy passages into which the feeble rays of the daylight were struggling, made her way to the servants' quarter. The retainers of the castle were astir, early as was the hour. She bade one of them summon to her Shawnna-Coppal, and by the same messenger she ordered a boat to wait by the river stairs. Shawn's toilet was not of the most elaborate, and in a few moments he appeared before his mistress.

"Shawn, you must bear a message for me to the camp of General O'Neill, at Ballinasloe."

"Lady, I'm ready."

"This note is for Captain MacDermott, whom you have seen at Athleag-finn; deliver it into his own hands, if you can, before the evening of to-day. Lose not a moment on your way, our lives depend on your speed."

"Holy angels, preserve us!" exclaimed Shawn, pale with terror. "I will not stop till I reach Ballinasloe. Let me begone at once."