to the beautiful solitude of the still glen to brood over the image of her he loves, and who, probably, sits under the very tree where his love was avowed and returned; he, we say, exalted with the fulness of his happiness, feels his heart go abroad in gladness upon the delighted objects that surround him, for everything that he looks upon is as a friend; his happy heart expands over the whole landscape; his eye glances to the sky; he thinks of the Almighty Being above him, and though without any capacity to analyze his own feelings—­love—­the love of some humble, plain but modest girl—­kindles by degrees into the sanctity and rapture of religion.

Let not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O’Donovan when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that which bound his heart and Una’s together, he exclaimed, as he did, “Oh!  I could pray to God this moment with a purer heart than I ever had before!” Such a state of feeling among the people is neither rare nor anomalous; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world may be startled at our assertion, we beg to assure them that love and religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine.

As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest passed fearfully through the sky; and, though the darkness was deep and unbroken by anything but the red flashes of lightning, yet, so strongly absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he arrived at his father’s house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements which surrounded him.

The family had retired to bed when he entered, with the exception of his parents, who, having felt uneasy at his disappearance, were anxiously awaiting his return, and entering into fruitless conjectures concerning the cause of an absence so unusual.

“What,” said the alarmed mother, “what in the wide world could keep him so long out, and on sich a tempest as is in it?  God protect my boy from all harm an’ danger, this fearful night!  Oh, Fardorougha, what ’ud become of us if anything happened him?  As for me—­my heart’s wrapped up in him; wid—­out our darlin’ it ’ud break, break, Fardorougha.”

“Hut; he’s gone to some neighbor’s an’ can’t come out till the storm is over; he’ll soon be here now that the thunder an’ lightnin’s past.”

“But did you never think, Fardorougha, what ’ud become of you, or what you’d do or how you’d live, if anything happened him? which the Almighty forbid this night and forever!  Could you live widout him?”

The old man gazed upon her like one who felt displeasure at having a contingency so painful forced upon his consideration.  Without making any reply, however, he looked thoughtfully into the fire for some time, after which he rose up, and, with a querulous and impatient voice, said,