the sutures have been closed, the charm successful, and the headache immediately removed.  It is impossible to say how the discrepancy in the measurement is brought about; but be that as it may, the writer of this has frequently seen the operation performed in such a way as to defy the most scrutinizing eye to detect any appearance of imposture, and he is convinced that in the majority of cases there is not the slightest imposture intended.  The operator is in truth a dupe to a strong and delusive enthusiasm.”

This melancholy picture was too much for the tenderness of the mother; she sat down beside the bed, rested her face on her open hand, and wept in subdued but bitter grief.  At this moment his father, who probably suspected the cause of her absence, came in and perceived her distress.

“Vara,” said he, in Irish also, “is my darlin’ son asleep?”

She looked up, with streaming eyes, as he spoke, and replied to him in a manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the boy, and the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered—­that in point of fact no heart—­certainly no Irish heart—­could withstand it.  There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity, and beauty—­named in Irish “Tha ma mackulla’s na foscal me,”—–­or in English, “I am asleep, and don’t waken me.”  The position of the boy caused the recollection of the old melody to flash into the mother’s heart,—­she simply pointed to him as the words streamed in a low melodious murmur, but one full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips.  The old sacred association—­for it was one which she had sung for him a thousand times,—­until warned to desist by his tears—­deepened the tenderness of her heart, and she said with difficulty, whilst she involuntarily held over the candle to gratify the father’s heart by a sight of him.  “I was keepin’ him before my eye,” she said; “God knows but it may be the last night we’ll ever see him undher our own roof!  Dominick, achora, I doubt I can’t part wid him from my heart.”

“Then how can I, Vara?” he replied.  “Wasn’t he my right hand in everything?  When was he from me, ever since he took a man’s work upon him?  And when he’d finish his own task for the day, how kindly he’d begin an’ help me wid mine!  No, Vara, it goes to my heart to let him go away upon sich a plan, and I wish he hadn’t taken the notion into his head at all.”

“It’s not too late, maybe,” replied his mother:  “I think it wouldn’t be hard to put him off of it; the crathur’s own heart is failin’ him to lave us.  He has sorrow upon his face where he lies.”

The father looked at the expression of affectionate melancholy which shaded hia features as he slept; and the perception of the boy’s internal struggle against his own domestic attachments in accomplishing hia first determination, powerfully touched his heart.