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And she rubbed herself up against Mr. Burke's legs as she spoke, and evidently expected that he was the person who was to act as nurse to her and put her to bed.

“'Deed, sir,” said Bridget, “the swate purty crathure 'll have to go to bed this night, any way, so maybe I'd better take her at once an' find a corner for her in me own. I can take care of her aisy; bless her heart, thin, the darlin'!"

"Well, I suppose she must go to bed," Mr. Burke replied doubtfully, notwithstanding the emphasis he laid on the word "must." Miss Rose settled the matter for them herself by sinking down on the floor at Mr. Burke's feet fast asleep.

Poor little child! Wherever she had come from that day, or however far she had travelled, they could not tell, but her blue eyes could not keep open, or her small busy brain awake any longer, and now, fast asleep, she lay on the floor, at the feet of the puzzled and bewildered master of the house.

Bridget did not wait for orders, but just saying, "By yer lave, sir," to him, she took the tired child up in her kind motherly arms, and carried her out of the room with almost an air of triumph. "Swate wee darlin'!" she murmured over the sleeping child. Shure yer are but a babby, afther all, an' it's only one noight we shall have yer, so it's meeself will make the most of yer."

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Only one night. Mrs. Bridget, you little knew what was going to happen. How little we any of us know of what is before us, or of what a day may bring forth.

Good Mrs. Bridget carried her small soundlysleeping burden up into her own room. She undressed her with a lightness of touch that you would not have thought those large hard-working hands of hers capable of; but Bridget's kind heart inspired her hands not to awaken a sleeping baby. She did not wake her to brush her pretty flaxen curls, but laid her gently between the sheets, and placed a soft pillow under her head. Then she put the candle where it could not shine on the closed eyelids, and sitting down herself by the bedside, watched quietly by the little sleeper, till she felt assured that she might move from the room without waking her.

What a strange thing it was to have this baby in the house! and how it seemed to soften and sweeten everything. Bridget had not felt so happy and gentle for a long time. What a pity, she thought, that it would be so soon over. Wait a while, Mrs. Bridget; do not be in such a hurry to make up your mind on that part of the matter. Perhaps it will not be so soon over as you fancy.

Meantime Mr. Burke went to his dinner con.

siderably later than was his custom, and ate it in a dreamy, absent sort of way, listening for a knock at the hall door or a ring at the hall bell, that would mean that the person who had brought the child there had returned.

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What was the fellow like, Larry?" he inquired, as he ate his chicken, and Larry waited on him. Like one of thim foreigners," was the reply, "with black beads for eyes, and ringlets for hair that a man might be ashamed of himself for wearing."

"And he said he would come back to-night?"

"Deed he did-an' for the reward: though what the reward would be for it's meeself doesn't know. Jist like his impudence!"

Hour after hour passed, and no sailor came to the house. Ten, eleven, twelve struck by the clock in the hall; Rose slumbered soundly in Bridget's bed, and Bridget herself had lain down beside her, and slept the sleep of the hard-working and kind-hearted. Larry also had been dismissed by his master, who was now the only person up and awake in the house. He had taken his wine, smoked his cigar, and gone upstairs to the drawing-room, now brilliantly lighted by the gas chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling, and after walking about for some time, had at last settled himself down to the papers that he had brought home with him, and that had occupied his mind till he heard Rose's soft breathings as she slept in his chair.

As the clock struck twelve he pushed the papers he had been reading and writing into a drawer, and rising leisurely from his chair, gave himself a good stretch, and yawned comfortably. Surely he had been dreaming-he could not have found a little child in that room- she had not been left here by a sailor, who said he would call for a reward, and had not done so-she had not sat on his knee, and caressing him, insisted on his feeding her with bread and milk-he had not kissed her, and fed her she was not sleeping at that moment upstairs in Bridget's bed. It was all impossible, and he had been dreaming.

Naturally enough, he looked across at the chair where he had found her, while these thoughts passed through his mind, and beside it he saw the black portmanteau.

"How foolish I am!" he cried. "Why have not I opened it? why have I forgotten it altogether? Its contents may explain this strange mystery; and certainly I have every right to examine them, as the man has not returned, and the child is here."

He brought the box across the room, and placed it on the table under the chandelier. Then he perceived that a key was tied to one of the handles

by a piece of red tape. He took the key, put it in the lock, turned it-and the box was unlocked.

With eager hands he raised the lid, and an odd smell of seaweed and salt water rose up to his nose. Little frocks, pinafores, and other articles of childish dress lay at the top, and though dry now, they evidently had been saturated with salt water. He lifted them up; there was a doll as well as some curious toys and boxes, made, he felt sure, by the hands of the savage inhabitants

of some

far away land.

But where had

sweet little Rose hailed from? Then some letters and papers, from which the

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guished there were, plain enough, two F's and a Ction, and te, "affectionate." Yes, that was it, of course, "I remain your affectionate "-what?

What indeed? When held close to the gas, the next word could be clearly read, though it had been indistinguishable in the dimmer light; none of it was erased, it was only very, very pale, but hardly as pale as Mr. Burke's face became as he read it. The word was "brother," and the

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"SHE TOOK THE TIRED CHILD UP" (p. 7).

they were the signature of a letter, and the name signed was his. He saw distinctly two words: "I remain ; "then came a gap, the writing on which he could not distinguish, and then the name, "Archibald Burke," his own name!

He held the paper close below the chandelier that shed its brilliant light around him, and by its help he distinctly made out the words he had not at first been able to read. There were a Y and an O, a letter quite gone, and then an R: of course the word was your "I remain your." But what was this that came next? Amid letters not to be distin

whole sentence

read thus:

"I remain

Your affectionate brother,

ARCHIRALD BURKE."

Mr. Burke sat down, for his agitation made it difficult for him to stand, and stared at the letter as he

held it before

him. He turned

the page and saw the dateten years before -more than ten years and a word or two just here and there seemed to tell that the letter consisted partly of advice and entreaty, partly of accounts of his own life at the university in Dublin a word or two here and there, for this

was all which the destroying water had spared. No more than that could be deciphered of the letter.

Mr. Burke had never had more than one brother, Donough, who had got into trouble as a lad, had run away from home, and been a cause of the utmost anxiety and grief to his parents, who were now both of them dead. For many years he had not been heard of, and Mr. Burke had long believed him to be dead. He had loved him dearly, and mourned for him sincerely, and now-now-here was one of his letters to him, written long ago-letters that had tried to persuade him to come back to his home

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well. He had given it to Donough on his birthday, when they were boys together. He could not be mistaken. Ah! how well he re

membered it,

and how well he remembered the light-hearted boy to whom he had given it. Vividly the picture of his brother rose before him, and his own picture too as he placed the book in his hand. He tore it open. There was his brother's name, scrawled in the once wellknown boyish hand. How well he remembered

gone; some were scribbled over with old writing that
had been there for years, and which told nothing.
But there was a pocket, and inside the pocket
was a letter, and the letter was directed to him.
Hastily he opened it, and hastily he read its
contents as follows:-
:-

"DEAR ARCHIE,-You have, I am sure, thought me dead long ago, and it does not make much difference, for dead I shall be before this letter reaches you. My dear wife-you did not know I was married-is gone, and I must follow her heaven; and thank God I have repented of all my sins and follies, and hope through His mercy to do so. But when I am dead I shall send

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"HE SAT WITH THE LETTER IN HIS HAND."

Donough writing this when he gave him the book!
Underneath was the following doggrel verse :-
"My name is Donough Burke, this book it is mine own;
High and low, rich and poor, may on its pages look ;
For I will keep this book for worthy things alone,
And I will keep my name as honoured as this book."
How they had laughed as they wrote this
together, one making one line and one another.
And now here he was reading it alone in his hand-
some house in Fitzwilliam Place, Dublin. And
where was Donough? Most of the pages were

to

you my one little treasure, whom I cannot part with while I yet livemy own dear little baby girl. Uncle Archie, I know, will be kind to her for her poor father's sake, and if you have a wife and children of your own, they will be kind to her

for yours. Goodbye, old fellow. I should like to see you again.

"Yours ever affectionately,

"DONOUGH BURKE,"

He sat with the letter in his hand, hardly believing his eyes

after he had read it. What a letter to find in the pocket-book that had called up recollections! He hardly seemed to understand it. Was it really what it seemed? Did the letter really mean what it appeared to mean? Yes, this was the explanation of it all, and the little girl sleeping upstairs, whom he had fed and fondled and kissed, whom he had held on his knee and clasped in his arms when he had thought her only a stranger visiting him for an hour, was his own little niece, the daughter of his dead brother Donough! (To be continued.)

A

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

HERE came four folk to Bethlehem,
On Christmas Day in the morning-
A child, a youth, and a woman fair,
And an old, old man with silver hair,
With gifts for the Babe's adorning.

Then knelt they down at Bethlehem,

On Christmas Day in the morning; And Spring had brought a crocus wild, And Summer a rose for the Holy ChildGifts for the Babe's adorning.

And there they knelt at Bethlehem,
On Christmas Day in the morning;
And Autumn gave Him her fruits of gold,
And a holly-bough brought Winter old-
Gifts for the Babe's adorning.

So come ye all to Bethlehem,

On Christmas Day in the morning, And to the Holy Jesus sing, And bring the best that ye can bringGifts for the Babe's adorning. F. E. WEATHERLY.

TOULOURU'S FIRST TRIP TO THE SEA.

By the Author of "A Hedgehog Family," "How Woggles won his Laurels," &c. &c.

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44 THEIR OWNERS WERE NOW SCATTERED

ABOUT."

T was night

a night in the month of April, in the tropics, too; for our scene is laid in the lovely island of Jamaica. Up on the slope of a solitary hili

were a number of holes, which made it appear like a rabbit warren; but each of these belonged to a land-crab,

and their owners were now scattered about outside their domiciles, making their nocturnal repast on the herbage around: some were nibbling vegetables, which could be obtained without much trouble, while others of a more enterprising nature climbed the magnolia and tulip trees in search of more dainty fare.

Two young crabs who had mounted a low branch only a few feet from the ground had unfortunately set their affections on the same supper, and the consequence was first a rush and scramble, and then a quarrel, which resulted in one of the squabblers falling off the bough, right in front of an old neighbour's claws.

Crusty shook her pincers solemnly at this frivolous proceeding, and croaked reproachfully.

"Ah, Toulouru! will you never learn sense?

You are the giddiest and most headstrong crab I have ever had the misfortune to instruct."

"It strikes me your days of instruction, as far as as I am concerned, are nearly over," cried Toulouru, flippantly, dancing round and round her friend. "How much longer, Crusty dear, are you going to try and keep us children? Surely we are able to look after ourselves now."

"Poor thing!" murmured the old crab, sadly. "It is little you know what is before you." Then she continued aloud, " after your march to the sea and back again I think your education will be quite finished."

"What am I going to the sea for?" inquired Toulouru, with much curiosity.

"Silly child! Is it possible you do not know that at this time of year we all go on a journey down to the sea to lay our eggs, and it is a very, very dangerous business, I can tell you; no crab who leaves her hole here can be sure of ever seeing it again."

"I think a journey will be great fun," cried Toulouru, gaily skipping about. "When are we to start?"

"The advance guard set out some days ago, and I heard some of our neighbours talking of tomorrow, or next day," replied Crusty; "but remember, you must follow me wherever I go and do everything I do, or you will be lost."

"Really, you don't say so!" said our young acquaintance, more seriously; "I'll go and tell Slowcoach of our trip." And she ran nimbly away.

Crusty's anticipations proved well founded. On the following night the crabs all assembled, and solemnly taking leave of their homes set out on their long journey to the sea. There were such a very large number of them that the procession marched in a column thirty or forty yards broad.

Young and old, large and small, and of all colours, from nearly black to lovely violet, and spotted crabs besides, were there; but as we take

"DANCING ROUND AND ROUND" (p. 10).

more interest in our heroine than her other companions we will return to her affairs.

As soon as the rapidly-falling night had begun to close in, Crusty had gone to seek her young companions, and then the three crabs for Slow-coach also intended to keep near-took up their places about halfway down the procession; because, Crusty whispered, it was better to let their friends in front go over the road first, and it would not do to be among the last either, for they would be left too far behind when they stopped to feed.

Off moved the great army at last. Some eager young crabs, of the same age as Toulouru, tried to run on ahead, but they were promptly ordered to the rear; any who disobeyed were left to their own devices, and as they did not know the country in the least, they soon lost their way, and those who escaped the dangers that menaced them on every side were only too thankful to be allowed to creep into the ranks at the very end of the procession. The crabs now moved steadily along for a considerable time, resting during the heat of the day in holes and crevices, and travelling at night. The leaders had often marched before, and boldly and proudly strutted in front. At last they came to

a river, and Crusty uttered a croak of satisfaction.

"We are fortunate!" she cried; "when we reached

this point last year more rain had fallen, and there was ever so much water; now the bed of the river is nearly dry, and we can get over easily."

"Why must we go across?" inquired Toulouru in astonishment, "why not go round?

"Because we must go straight forward whenever it is possible," replied Crusty, impatiently. "Nothing should hinder us, and nothing does except a river."

As she spoke, the pioneers crawled down to the bed of the stream and began crossing.

For a time all went well, but a bevy of young and ignorant crabs just in front of our heroines, instead of waiting quietly for their turn, hastened on too fast after their companions; then, when they began to push and jostle each other, some--the weaker ones --stuck fast in the thick, wet mud of the watercourse, and the impetuous ones, not minding, crept on over their bodies; and a scene of great confusion ensued. Many crabs were suffocated, many more, being shoved off the track, were unfortunate enough to fall into deep water-holes which occurred here and there along the river; and when Toulouru scrambled

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"THE OBJECT WAS HER OLD INSTRUCTRESS (p. 13).

up the farther bank, having succeeded with difficulty in making her way across, she panted"Well if this is the consequence of 'going

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