told, as well as words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. It
was getting dark, but he loitered on, returning no greeting to any
one.

A child's cry caught his ear. His thoughts were running on little
Tom; on the dead and buried child of happier years. He followed the
sound of the wail, that might have been HIS, and found a poor little
mortal, who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up his
thoughts to the single want, "Mammy, mammy." With tender address,
John Barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience
he gathered fragments of meaning from the half-spoken words which
came mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. So, aided
by inquiries here and there from a passer-by, he led and carried the
little fellow home, where his mother had been too busy to miss him,
but now received him with thankfulness, and with an eloquent Irish
blessing. When John heard the words of blessing, he shook his head
mournfully and turned away to retrace his steps.

Let us leave him.

Mary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on, and sat on,
trying to listen to Job, who was more inclined to talk than usual.
She had conquered her feeling of impatience towards him so far as to
be able to offer him her father's rejected supper; and she even
tried to eat herself. But her heart failed her. A leaden weight
seemed to hang over her; a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhaps
only an excess of low-spirited feeling in consequence of the two
departures which had taken place that afternoon.

She wondered how long Job Legh would sit. She did not like putting