There is little more to be said.  Sorrow was soon succeeded by cheerfulness and the glow of expected pleasure, which is ever the more delightful, as the pleasure is pure.  In about a week their old neighbors, with their carts and cars, arrived; and before the day was closed on which Owen removed to his new residence, he found himself once more sitting at his own hearth, among the friends of his youth, and the companions of his maturer years.  Ere the twelvemonth elapsed, he had his house perfectly white, and as nearly resembling that of Tubber Derg in its better days as possible.  About two years ago we saw him one evening in the month of June, as he sat on a bench beside the door, singing with a happy heart his favorite song of “Colleen dhas crootha na mo.”  It was about an hour before sunset.  The house stood on a gentle eminence, beneath which a sweep of green meadow stretched away to the skirts of Tubber Derg.  Around him was a country naturally fertile, and, in spite of the national depression, still beautiful to contemplate.  Kathleen and two servant maids were milking, and the whole family were assembled about the door.

“Well, childher,” said the father, “didn’t I tell yez the bitther mornin’ we left Tubber Derg, not to cry or be disheartened—­that there was a ‘good God above who might do somethin’ for us yet?’ I never did give up may trust in Him, an’ I never will.  You see, afther all our little troubles, He has wanst more brought us together, an’ made us happy.  Praise an’ glory to His name!”

I looked at him as he spoke.  He had raised his eyes to heaven, and a gleam of elevated devotion, perhaps worthy of being-called sublime, irradiated his features.  The sun, too, in setting, fell upon his broad temples and iron-gray locks, with a light solemn and religious.  The effect to me, who knew his noble character, and all that he had suffered, was as if the eye of God then rested upon the decline of a virtuous man’s life with approbation;—­as if he had lifted up the glory of his countenance upon him.  Would that many of his thoughtless countrymen had been present!  They might have blushed for their crimes, and been content to sit and learn wisdom at the feet of Owen M’Carthy.

NEAL MALONE.

There never was a greater souled or doughtier tailor than little Neal Malone.  Though but four feet; four in height, he paced the earth with the courage and confidence of a giant; nay, one would have imagined that he walked as if he feared the world itself was about to give way under him.  Lot none dare to say in future that a tailor is but the ninth part of a man.  That reproach has been gloriously taken away from the character of the cross-legged corporation by Neal Malone.  He has wiped it off like a stain from the collar of a second-hand coat; he has pressed this wrinkle out of the lying front of antiquity; he has drawn together this rent in the respectability of his profession.  No.  By him who was breeches-maker to the gods—­that is, except, like Highlanders, they eschewed inexpressibles—­by him who cut Jupiter’s frieze jocks for winter, and eke by the bottom of his thimble, we swear, that Neal Malone was more than the ninth part of a man!