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PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

THE LIVING AGE COMPANY, BOSTON.

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FOR SIX DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, THE LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage.

Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of THE LIVING AGE Co.

Single copies of THE LIVING AGE, 15 cents.

GEO. A. FOXCROFT, Manager Advertising Department, 36 Bromfield St., Room 3.

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IN THE SHADOW.

Oh, she will have the deep, dark heart, for all her face is fair,

What voice awakes the emerald house?
What love incarnate flies on wings?
What passion shakes the trembling As deep and dark as though beneath the

boughs?

It is the bird of love that sings.

It is the bird of love that sings,

Stabbing our silence like a sword, And Love himself that flies on wings, God the enchanter, and no bird.

Our moon of honey, our marriage moon,
Rides in the heaven for our delight;
The silver world grows golden soon,
Honey and gold spilled in the night.

The bird of love, the bird of pain,

He sings our marriage moon away; Filling the night with golden rain, Betwixt the darkness and the day.

Closer and closer, hold me close,

For is it love or death he sings?

And is it love or death that goes

shadow of her hair:

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And is there any home for him whose portion is the night?

And is there any peace for him whose doom is endless flight?

O wild, sad bird, O wind-spent bird, O bird upon the wave,

Through the sweet night with rustling There is no home for thee, wild bird, but in the cold sea-grave! FIONA MACLEOD.

wings?

KATHARINE TYNAN.

From Temple Bar. DID HE REMEMBER?

III.

When Major Neligan came to examine the agency books, he found they were principally devoted to single-column entries, headed "Arrears of Rent." He forthwith determined to appoint a day of settlement, and bid every ten ant on the estate to the interesting ceremony. It was his intention to do the thing in the good old style, and provide a substantial repast as a prelude to the more important part of the business.

The grand settling-day arrived-but the tenants did not. From early morning until the shadows of evening began to creep across the lawn, the major waited and watched; but if they that were bidden did not, with one consent, begin to send excuses, it certainly seemed as if they had decided to ignore the invitation.

At the eleventh hour, however, two solitary figures appeared in sight. The pair approached in a rather leisurely manner, not without a certain amount of caution apparently, as if the object of their visit was simply to spy out the land. Neligan had them in at once, and a little banter ensued upon their dilatory attendance. Certainly, as far as the eating and drinking part of the business went, they were hosts in themselves; but they evidently did not deem it necessary to wait for the subsequent stage of the proceedings. Taking advantage of the major's temporary absence from the room, they seized their hats and quietly decamped.

To say that Neligan was furious would be quite too mild a term to express the extent of his righteous indignation. Next day, following the same course of reasoning as the wise Mohamet employed with respect to his mountain, he started off to hunt up the delinquents, fully determined to bring them to their senses. A crisis was bound to come sooner or later, and the impetuous major chose to have it out with these troublesome fellows, then

and there.

Persuasive measures had

proved a dismal failure; well, if they wouldn't be led, they must be driven, that was all.

During the next week or two the relations between agent and tenants became more and more strained. Then the major boldly declared war by issuing a batch of ejectment notices upon the defaulters. They retaliated with a boycotting manifesto, a copy of which was promptly posted up on his gates.

Neligan entered upon the strife with all the ardor of an old campaigner. Threatening letters began to pour in upon him; he tossed them into the fire with the utmost unconcern. Midnight meetings were held, at which his name was denounced; he walked abroad as usual, scorning police protection. In the dead of night his gate pillars were decorated with a device which bore an approximate resemblance to a skull and cross-bones, underneath which appeared the rude outline of a coffin; but he only laughed at such silly attempts to intimidate him.

As time went on, Mary observed with pain and misgiving a gradual change in Phil's manner. He was nolonger the alert, willing fellow of former days, but went about his work with downcast looks; silent, thoughtful. and almost morose. Once or twice she saw him in earnest conversation with certain men, whom she had good reason to suspect were among her father's bitterest enemies.

What did this change betoken? Was he debating as to whether he should join hands with his fellows, or brave their scorn and hatred by sticking manfully to the major and his family? It was impossible to say. The choice had to be made, however; there was no getting out of it. As she watched him from day to day, Mary's heart was filled with secret dread; somehow she seemed instinctively to feel that the question would be decided against them.

The decisive moment came rather sooner than she had expected. One

evening, Phil appeared at the door of the major's study. Twisting his hat awkwardly in his hands, he stammered out an apology for disturbing his honor, but he just came up to say that he wished to leave at the end of the week; there was a bit of land to be had down by the Red Bog, and he thought he might do worse than to take it.

The major flew into a towering rage -he wasn't to be hoodwinked so easily; he could see plainly enough through that flimsy excuse!

"At the end of the week!" he vociferated, rising to his feet. "No! You'll leave this instant, you great hulking coward! So you're afraid to stand by those who have befriended you?-well, take your wages, you ungrateful scoundrel, and clear out of my sight!" And he flung the money on the floor. Phil stooped down and quietly col

lected the scattered coins. He made

no reply to those bitter, cutting words, though it was plain they had struck home, and were rankling in his spirit. He drew himself up, and for a single moment looked the major full in the face; but there was no trace of enmity or malice in that look-rather more of reproach than anything else. Then he turned slowly away, and left the room in silence.

It was growing dusk rapidly as he trudged down the lane towards the village, his bundle slung on a stick over his shoulder. Suddenly he appeared to hesitate, and looked from side to side as if anxious to make his escape through the thick hawthorn hedge. Mary was approaching. On seeing him, she quickened her steps, and was soon at his side.

"Oh, Phil!" she cried, in accents of distress, "are you going to desert us too? What would your poor mother have said to this, Phil? Do you remember her dying words that evening In the cottage?"

"I do, Miss Mary, I do!" he said, in a husky voice. "God knows I do, but

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The words died upon his lips, the eager light faded from his eyes, and a cold, hard look settled upon his features. Mary, following the direction of his gaze, saw a dark scowling face behind the hedge. The man, whoever he was, watched them with a grim intentness that positively made her shudder. She parted from Phil abruptly, and walked on rapidly towards the house, terrified by the sight of that evil countenance.

Only once did she pause to look back. The man had come out into the lane and appeared to be talking earnestly to Phil. The latter, however, seemed to pay little attention, for his head was turned in her direction, and his gaze clung to her to the last.

She reached home cold, tired, and sick at heart. The major was pacing restlessly before the house, his head bare, his face still flushed, and his whole aspect indicating an unsettled and indignant state of mind.

"Well, child, SO your precious protégé has proved himself a precious rascal," he said, as she joined him. "Oh, he's deserted-gone over to the enemy, bag and baggage-and a good riddance too! I thought all along it would come to this; there isn't one of them to be trusted; they're all tarred with the same brush."

Mary did not venture a word in Phil's defence. Though she believed in her heart he had no evil intentions towards them, yet she had placed such reliance upon his fidelity, his open desertion was a cruel blow to her. Moreover, she feared, now he had cast off all restraining influence, if he once got among a bad set, they would succeed in poisoning his mind, and lead him into mischief of some sort.

Meanwhile, the man who had joined Phil in the lane-a scoundrel of the blackest dye, known as "American" Moran-took care not to trust his companion out of sight during the remainder of the evening, for there was an important matter to be settled later on, and he had special reasons for de

siring Phil's presence. This fellow Moran was one of the major's bitterest enemies, though why that should be so was best known to himself. He held no tenancy on the Vereker estate -or on any other estate for that matter. He and a colleague named Hennessy (an evicted tenant from an adjoining estate) were the leading spirits in all that was seditious and ruffianly. They took upon themselves to direct and control the views of the Derawlin tenants, spurred them on to blind resistance of their agent, and fostered the bad feeling that had lately sprung up, until it was quite sturdy enough to take care of itself. Though absolutely men of straw, as far as means and position went, they exercised a despotic sway over the minds of these misguided peasants. It was as much as a man's life was worth to question their authority, for they only had to denounce him as a traitor to the cause-and then let him look to himself.

If in the silent watches of that night the inmates of a wayside cottage caught the sound of hurried footsteps on the road outside, they sat still and listened, without daring to approach door or window. No word was uttered, no surprise displayed, but a steady look, full of grave import, passed from one to the other. The cattle in the fields, startled by the dark figures that went gliding noiselessly by, rushed wildly hither and thither, while the more timid colts dashed off at a mad gallop. Low whistles resounded from different points; men crept along by the hedges; others made their way through unfrequented paths; all converged to the same spot.

Down by the riverside, where a weir had been thrown across the stream, stood the black, roofless skeleton of a once flourishing mill. A dilapidated mud cabin jutted out from one of the outer walls, but the dense shadow of the great towering mass behind it almost completely hid it from sight. Man after man approached this cabin; the

door was silently opened, and they disappeared into the gloom beyond.

One hour passed. A profound and deathlike silence hovered over the ruin, in the dark recesses of which a secret conclave deliberated upon a question of life and death. Then the door opened, and a man, whose white, agitated face seemed to show he had passed through some trying ordeal, peeped out, listened, and slunk away into the darkness. After that, the remainder stole out in twos and threes, all equally relieved that the business of the night was over. Some few, who had evidently not taken an active part in the proceedings, addressed eager inquiries to their companions, and were answered in a low whisper

"Yes, it's settled; next Monday evening on the Castleisland road; Phil Scully's got to do it."

IV.

For the remainder of that week Phil's steps were dogged by those two arch-conspirators, Moran and Hennessy. Somehow, they didn't seem quite sure of their man, and took good care to protect themselves against the possible consequences of any qualms of conscience with which he might have been troubled. He was never permitted to wander out of sight, lest he should slip off and make a clean breast of it to the police. Such a notion, however, did not once enter into Phil's mind; to "turn informer" was, in his eyes, to sink to the lowest depths of depravity.

In the evenings he sat by the turf fire, silent, moody, and apparently oblivious to the covert looks and secret whisperings of his companions. They would have given much to have got at the thoughts that were passing through his mind just then, and vainly endeavored to draw him out regarding the business on hand. But Phil kept his own counsel, though he appeared resolved upon a certain course of action, whatever it may have been.

On the Castleisland road, about a

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