said Kitty Delouchery, who had heard of Mr. Jennings's accident, on the review-field.

"Upon my word, I believe you, young woman."

After some further discourse, Mr. Jennings invited Eliza and her servant, as he understood Kitty to be, to wait by his side, upon his post, until he should be relieved, which he expected would very shortly occur. But Eliza was averse to the observation which this might occasion, and also fearful, that by it strangers would become aware of her intention to accompany Mr. Jennings home; a fact she wished to conceal, lest Talbot might profit by it. She demurred, therefore, to Mr. Jennings's offer, and arranged instead, that, until he should be free, she and Kitty would await him at the house of Nanny's daughter, whither Kitty undertook to conduct our heroine; "the ways o' the place" being well known to the young coquette, as may be inferred from her dialogue with the susceptible dragoon.

Until really put to task, the human mind can form no idea of its own powers of endurance. If, but a fortnight since, any one had prophesied to Eliza the accumulation of misery which she now experienced, she would have said that her death, or the deprivation of her senses, must have resulted from it. And, indeed, were she called upon to bear, as she might, the anguish of her father's sudden and shameful death, and the fears of her husband's ruin, it is propable that Eliza might have lain stunned under two such deadly blows. But the eager impulse to avoid a new evil, which her soul instinctively shrank from, supplied by a last appeal to her energies, the capability to struggle against her less recent trials.

Eliza's sense of her desolate and miserable situation was not, however, amid all her present efforts to avoid her enemy, the less poignant or absorbing. As she and Kitty Gow, after much knocking at the door of a very humble house, at last sat down in the little huxter's shop, of which Nanny's daughter was proprietor, to await the charitable offices of Mr. Jennings, her reflections caused her to wring her hands in agony.

Mr. Jennings had fled from Wexford, upon the day of its evacuation by the King's forces, to a brother in Ross, his wife and children accompanying, and often supporting him, along the sultry and dusty road. Unluckily, he did not, upon his safe arrival in the town, lay aside his military jacket, (although he had promptly forsaken his musket.) He was therefore included in the general muster set on foot to oppose the continued successes of the insurgents. It will be believed, that he remonstrated against the evident injustice, as well as inhos

pitality, of thus binding him to the very stake which he had abandoned his own native place to avoid. Indeed, he would have bluntly refused again to bear arms, if he did not fear that immediate persecution, and very probably death as a suspected rebel, would be the consequence of his demur.

Our young adventurers had not to wait long for his coming. "He was let home for a while to take a bit of supper, and God knows it was only his due, afther walking and walking about for three long hours, when he ought to be out of his first sleep."

"I'll carry the gun for you, Sir," offered Kitty.

"Eh!" he cried, amazed at her hardihood, "won't you be afraid of it child? It's loaded, I protest."

"Not a bit afeard, Sir. Often I shot a crow when he'd be pickin' the barley on us."

66

Why, then, upon my word, here it's for you.-But take care, child-the laste thing in the world would let it off. Oh, Lord! turn the muzzle away, child!" as Kitty, shouldering her piece, playfully slanted it towards him.

He

Arrived at his own door, Mr. Jennings' timid double-knock, somewhat between the plebeian single blow, and the more elegant tantararara, caused a great fuss within. More than one pair of feet hurried down stairs. "Make haste, Peggy !" cried a shrill female voice; then two persons were heard unlocking and unbolting the door. "Slip the boult, and I'll turn the kay," was the agreement between the anxious little daughters; and, as the father entered, he was so embraced and caressed by them, and by his wife, who now had descended, that for some time his companions escaped notice. kissed his lady and his children with grateful rapture that he beheld them again, and wiping his forehead of its honourable moisture, bustled into his sitting-room. Here he bethought himself of presenting Eliza, and stating her name and unhappy situation: she was welcomed with a respectful cordiality which soothed her sick heart. Then ensued the disarming of the soldier. His cap was laid aside; his grievous belts and gaiters unbuckled and unbuttoned. At his particular request, in order that none of his family might run the hazard, Kitty placed his musket in a far corner.

A homely supper now appeared, and respectfully pressing Eliza to join him, he engaged it heartily. By the time he had satisfied his appetite, his wife handed him a tumbler of whiskey-punch, of which she had previously, and more than once, tasted a little in the spoon, adding at each trial sugar, or water, or spirits, or lemon, until she quite assured herself that it was exactly of the flavour

which, by long experience, she knew would suit her husband's palate. And while he sipped it, he told of his patrolling through the streets, and of his standing sentinel to keep people from coming into the town, unless they said "General Johnson for him!" Sincerely were his warlike labours commiserated by the listeners.

During this, Eliza was permitted, almost uninterruptedly, to pursue her own thoughts. For though her present protectors could do a kind action, they knew not how, particularly if appealed to by their own concerns at the same time, to do it gracefully or very considerately, Kitty Gow had retired to the kitchen. Suddenly a thundering peal rang at the hall-door. All started in terror. Mr. Jennings was peremptorily summoned forth to attend a full muster of his corps. From accounts just received, the entry of the rebels was instantly expected. A scene ensued of bustle, weeping, and lamenting. The poor man himself seemed overwhelmed. Standing in the middle of the floor, "Oh!" he cried, the tears glazing his eyes, "am't I an unfortunate crature, this night to be called to do, at my time o' life, what I never thought I was born to do? Oh!" he gave a lengthened groan, as one of his weeping daughters hung his little pouch across his protruding body—" too tight, Peggy, my love. Anty," to the other who knelt to button his gaiters-" God bless you, Anty!-If I'm never to see you again, Biddy," cautiously accepting his musket from his wife,-"Biddy, you'll take care of 'em if—" His feelings abruptly hurried him out of the room. But he stopped and hesitated at the hall-door, and stopt and hesitated again; framing many excuses to himself for a little respite of time; such as, "he forgot his snuff-box," or "he wanted to look at the flint of his fire-lock," or, "'he'd just wait while Anty ran up for his nightcap, and thrust it into his pocket.”—At length he set forth, his wife and children hanging out of the windows to keep him in view as long as he was spared to their sight, and then they sank on chairs, brooding over their soldier's danger.

Sounds of alarm and battle through the town were anxiously listened for, as the signals of his immediate peril. But none such arose. In fact, the intelligence announced by Mr. Jennings's summoners proved a false alarm. At an advanced hour of the moring he was returned safe and sound to his family. "He's coming, mother!" shouted the daughters, who had been watching from a garret-window. "Aha, Peggy!" he replied, shouting up to his children from a distance, in a gay and triumphant tone-"they were afraid of us, the rascals!"

Hitherto, Eliza had been neglected. In the relief afforded by

Mr. Jennings's return, she found herself kindly and officiously attended to. Her wishes were consulted. She was served with tea, that modern and most grateful beverage to the weary, and then ushered to a bed-chamber. Where for some time we must leave her, enjoying repose, we hope, while we turn to other matters which nearly concern her.

CHAPTER XL.

THE little town of Ross is pleasantly, and, for all the purposes of trade and commerce, (if either would but come to it,) advantageously situated. In fortunate England, it would long ago have been a flourishing and wealthy place. In Ireland, thirty years ago it was, at the present day it is,-(only give some theorists their way, and at the day of judgment it will still be)—a few streets, half alive, with creeping attempts at petty traffic, and encumbered with a suburb of ruinous hovels, which poverty and wretchedness have marked for their own.

About a mile above it, two considerable rivers mingle their waters. Flowing beneath the wooded height, or by verdant meadow, their union forms the fine river of Ross, a quarter of a mile broad, almost of equal depth from bank to bank, and allowing, close to the quays of the town, safe anchorage for vessels of several hundred of tons burden.

Upon every side, hills rise precipitously above the more important streets, the suburb climbing with them, often against acclivities so sudden as to render the ascent of the pedestrian a work of much labour. From the opposite bank of the river a view peculiar as pleasing is commanded. Thence the distance is sufficient to obscure the frequent features of want and ruin in the poorer dwellings; thence are prominently visible the church and a mass of monastic ruins, mingling with and ennobling the cabins on the hill-side, all relieved by height and slope, meadow and plantation, and having for foreground below, the quay, and a few taper-masted vessels at its side.

Although styled New Ross, the little town claims to be of great antiquity. Four centuries since, it supported more than one monastery. Upon the ruins of one of these the Protestant church, at

present standing on the hill-side, has been erected. Beneath crumbling aisles, whence, in other days, floated the evening chant across the broad water, may yet be visited, close to this new place of worship, vaults, wherein lie scattered the blackened bones of the once powerful or revered ministers of an older ritual, whose knowledge, and often whose hands, reared the lofty structure which, destroyed by puritanical hatred, more than by the gradual touch of time, now refuses even a quiet grave to the relics of its ancient masters. And stories are related by local antiquaries of passages under the river to the monastery of Rossbercon, that crowns an opposite hill, and where the paltry steeple of a Roman Catholic chapel bears, to the pile that heretofore occupied its site, even a more humbling comparison in the minds of its visitors, than does the confronting church of the Establishment to the massive ruins with which it so badly groups.

Since 1641, when a battle of some moment was fought near to Ross-and when Cromwell, covering Ireland with desolation and carnage, anticipated time in destroying the pile we have alluded to-war had not visited the present scene of our tale. Partly, perhaps, on that account the artificial defences of Ross had been suffered to decay; or, as before supposed, may have been thrown down to allow of the extension of the streets.

Mr. Jennings received Eliza at one of the still standing gateways of its old walls. Three similar ones then existed at different points around the town. The complaisant sentinel was on post at the Friary-gate. Another on the hill above, and facing the north, gave entrance, through a thatched outlet, into the main street, which, winding down a long descent, led to the market-house. Whence diverged the various other principal streets.

The third gate, also standing on the summit of a hill, fronted the river. High above it, at right angles with the river, clambered, for half a mile in extent, the Irish-town, chiefly composed of the residences of the poorer classes. Here fairs were holden; and here stood the remains of the ancient stone-cross, assigned by Kitty Delouchery as the spot for her meeting with the credulous dragoon ;-a meeting which, it is scare necessary to add, never took place. Whether or not the disappointed soldier adopted her alternative of "cutting in it two wid his soord," may however seem a question. It is answered in the negative, by stating that the cross can yet be viewed in an unsevered state. But it is not as positively stated that he did not, in his rage and chagrin, at least make the attempt.

From the last-mentioned gate, the third, the descent into the