“It is not possible, then, to form an exaggerated picture of the sufferings of a million and a half of people in these countries, in their convalescence from fever, deprived of, not only the comforts, but even the necessaries of life, with scanty food, and fuel, and covering, only rising from fever to slowly fall victims to those numerous chronic diseases that are sure to seize upon enfeebled constitutions.  Death would be to many a more merciful dispensation than such a recovery.”—­Famine and Fever, as Clause and Effect in Ireland, &a., &o.  By D. J. Cohkigan, Esq., M.D., M.K.C.S.B.  Dublin:  J. Fannin & Co., Grafton Street.

It was to such a state of general tumult that the Prophet and his family arose on the morning of the following day.  As usual, he was grim and sullen, but on this occasion his face had a pallid and sunken look in it, which apparently added at least ten years to his age.  There was little spoken, and after breakfast he prepared to go out.  Sarah, during the whole morning, watched his looks, and paid a marked attention to every thing he said.  He appeared, however, to be utterly unconscious of the previous night’s adventure, a fact which his daughter easily perceived, and which occasioned her to feel a kind of vague compassion for him, in consequence of the advantage it might give Nelly over him; for of late she began to participate in her father’s fears and suspicions of that stubborn and superstitious personage.

“Father,” said she, as he was about to go out, “is it fair to ax where you are going?”

“It’s neither fair nor foul,” he replied; “but if it’s any satisfaction to you to know, I won’t tell you.”

“Have you any objections then, that I should walk a piece of the way with you?”

“Not if you have come to your senses, as you ought, about what I mentioned to you.”

“I have something to say to you,” she replied, without noticing the allusion he had made; “something that you ought to know.”

“An’ why not mention it where we are?”

“Bekaise I don’t wish her there to know it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” replied Nelly; “I feel your kindness—­an,’ dear me, what a sight o’ wisdom I’ll lose by bein’ kep’ out o’ the saicret—­saicret indeed!  A fig for yourself an’ your saicret; maybe I have my saicret as well as you.”

“Well, then,” replied Sarah, “if you have, do you keep yours as I’ll keep mine, and then we’ll be aiquil.  Come, father, for I must go from home too.  Indeed I think this is the last day I’ll be with either of you for some time—­maybe ever.”

“What do you mane?” said the father.

“Hut!” said the mother, “what a goose you are!  Charley Hanlon, to be sure; I suppose she’ll run off wid him.  Oh, thin, God pity him or any other one that’s doomed to be blistered wid you!”

Sarah flashed like lightning, and her frame began to work with that extraordinary energy which always accompanied the manifestation of her resentment.