the scene outside was, she seldom lifted up her eyes to look at it.  She had been all her life a great admirer of beautiful scenes, and of all the varieties the changes of day and night produce—­but now the sight of any thing particularly lovely brought so painfully before her mind the fact that her child’s eyes were closed to all these things, that she often forbore to look again, and so spared herself a repetition of the pang.  Madeline’s eyes therefore remained upon her work, or on her knee when she ceased working,—­for ever and anon there was a burst of noise and merriment about the old house, which startled her from her painful thoughts.  It was, however, the happy voices of her children, and again and again she sank into her melancholy mood, and so continued till the red hue of a very red sunset burst as it were suddenly into the room, and lighted up the portrait of Roderick, which hung over the mantel-piece.  Involuntarily Madeline’s eyes glanced from the lovely countenance of her then bright-eyed boy, thus illuminated, to the sun beyond the Sea.  She was too late, however.  He had just descended behind the waves in a perfect flood of crimson glory, but as she gazed, (for she could not withdraw-her eyes,) a haze—­yes, the softest and most etherial cloud-like haze, showing the outline of a beautiful mountainous island, rose in the far off distance, just on the verge of the horizon.  It was the Fairy Island.  It recalled to the mother’s remembrance the existence of her Fairy cousin once more.  “Cruel, cruel Eudora,” she exclaimed, “you offered me friendship and assistance, and in the hour of trouble and affliction you have never been near to help or even to comfort me.”

And Madeline, in the bitterness of her heart, closed the window hastily and angrily, and sat down.  Soon, however, the noises she had several times heard of the children playing, became louder and louder, and the whole party burst at last into the room.  “Mamma, Mamma,” they cried, scarcely able to speak, “guess where Roderick has been.”  “I cannot.”  “Oh, but do, dear Mamma!” cried a little thing with fairy curls, “do guess.”  “I cannot.”  “I’ll tell Mamma,” cried a stout sturdy fellow, a little older; “Mamma! he’s been up the winding staircase of one turret, and all along the leads and down the winding staircase of the other turret, and he has done it three times, and he has seen to do it better than I can.”

Here there was a burst of laughter and a violent clapping of hands at the little fellow’s Irish account.

“But why don’t you do it as well?” asked an elder girl, “you that are going to be a soldier too!”

“Yes; I know I’m going to be a soldier; and I’ll try and do it as well as Roderick;” and off ran the eager child, followed by the rest of the party, all but Roderick.  He lingered behind, and edging his way easily and quietly as usual to his Mother, having asked her where she was, he sat down on a footstool at her feet.  The slight answer she had occasion to make, revealed by its tone, to the now acute blind child, that his Mother’s mood was serious, and therefore he did not talk and laugh of what he had accomplished, as he otherwise might have done.  There was a silence of some minutes:  at last, “Mamma,” said Roderick gravely, “a light has broken in upon me to-day.”