and Lesbia on the car; "and, please goodness, he'll get as good a punishment as ever he got. Well, Jane ?" "Oh, nurse, I've been up and down. I've called and shouted, but could not get a sight of the children," answered Jane, with trembling lips. "I'm afraid the poor dears are lost." "Not a bit of them," cried nurse. they've gone home by train." "John, here, says he's sure "But they couldn't get a train nearer than Bray station," said Jane, doubtfully. "That would be a long way for them to walk." 66 "Long or short, that's what they've done," said nurse, decidedly; so the best thing for us to do is to go off home as fast as we can. Take Miss Nora in the donkey carriage with you, and let us get away." "Oh, nurse, nurse, do let us wait a little longer," pleaded Nora; "maybe the poor children are too tired to come back quickly, and are sitting down to rest." "Not they! Jane has been shouting and screaming everywhere." "But still they might be too far away to hear. They will be so frightened if they find us gone when they come to look for us. "Nonsense, Miss Nora; I suppose you think you know better than your elders. They've gone home, I'm sure. Jump in, there, and let us start." So, finding that further remonstrance was useless, Nora allowed herself to be lifted into Dermot's carriage, and, sobbing bitterly, she seated herself beside Jane. At last they were all ready, and the little party that had entered the gates so merrily a few hours before, passed through them now, looking miserable and unhappy. "Drive as fast as you can, John," said nurse, "for I feel that anxious that I hardly know where I am." "Keep up your spirits, ma'am," said John; "you'll see your young gentleman and his cousin very soon, never fear. I know the tricks they've been up to." "I hope and trust you may be right," she whispered, huskily; and as Baba fell asleep in her arms, she turned to cover her a rug. up with Her face grew white and anxious as they drove along, but not another word did she utter till they drew up at the castle door. Everything there was still and peaceful: not a sound was to be heard but the soft roll of the waves as they broke gently on the shore below. It was a glorious evening, and the sea and hills were bathed in a golden sunset that lent a wonderful beauty to the scene. The castle door stood open, as usual, but not a creature was to be seen either within or without the house. As the travellers approached, they raised their eyes to the windows, hoping to see a pair of merry faces peeping out at them from above. But no such pleasant sight greeted them, and white to the lips nurse entered the castle with Baba in her arms. John rang the bell, and soon the house woke up to life. Doors banged, dogs barked, and the servants ran out to help the children off the car and hear all the news of the pic-nic. Captain," the faithful house-dog, bounded from one little friend to the other, and wondered greatly at the small attention he received. But they had no thoughts for him, and looked eagerly about. "Where is Dermot? Where is Snowdrop ?" they asked at once. And when they learned that they had not returned, that they had not been seen or heard of all day, their grief and terror knew no bounds, and the little sisters began to weep and lament. "They must be in the house. They are surely hiding from us,' cried nurse, gazing about her in despair. "Go round the place and look in every hole and corner till you find them." The servants flew hither and thither at her bidding, hunting and searching, but all in vain. The children were not to be found, and at last, weary and disheartened, they returned to the hall, where nurse still sat rocking the sleeping baby in her arms, and surrounded by the weeping little ones. How many hours were passed in this miserable way no one knows. But suddenly footsteps sounded upon the gravel, pleasant voices were heard approaching, and with cries of joy the little girls rushed out to meet their father and mother. "Mamma! dear mamma!" cried Nora, clinging to Mrs. O'Connor's skirts, "Dermot and Snowdrop are lost; but now that you and papa have come home we must find them soon. Papa will surely know where to look for them. "Dermot-Snowdrop lost? What do you mean, child ?" cried Mrs. O'Connor, looking in terror from one tear-stained face to the other. "Nurse, where are the children ?" "If you please, ma'am," answered nurse, starting to her feet and trembling in every limb, "Master-Dermot-and Miss Snowdrop wandered away from us after dinner. I-thought-I was sure-they had come home. But they are nowhere in the house. We have looked-everywhere-but cannot find them." "Good gracious! this is alarming news, nurse," said Mr. C'Connor, trying to speak as quietly as possible to reassure his wife. "But we shall soon find them. Jane, take baby up to bed. Wandered from you, did you say? Well, that was naughty. I daresay they are sitting at Bray station waiting for someone to come to look for them. I am glad we came home earlier than we intended. I must be off by the next train and get them home as fast as possible." "Oh, Jim," cried Mrs. O'Connor, "how tired the poor darlings must be. And suppose they had really lost their way upon the lonely mountain ?" and she sat down sobbing on the nearest chair. "Hush, dear!" said Mr. O'Connor, gently. "Do not be frightened. I feel sure I shall soon find them. Send these poor scraps to bed, they are so tired; and make yourself quite happy. I shall soon return with the wanderers, never fear. I have just time to catch the train down to Bray. Come, nurse, carry your infants off to the nursery and leave your mistress in peace. Good-bye, dearest." And kissing his wife and little daughters, Mr. O'Connor put on his hat and hurried away to the station. Greatly reassured by her master's manner, nurse gathered the little ones together, and when they had kissed and bade their mother good-night, she took them off to the nursery and put them to bed. The poor children were worn out with fatigue and grief, and fondly believing that their father would find their brother and cousin, they laid their heads upon their pillows and were soon fast asleep. But her husband's brave and consoling words had not removed all fear from Mrs. O'Connor's heart. She was anxious and alarmed, and could not but tremble for the absent children. "What can have happened them? Where can they have gone ?" she cried, as she paced feverishly up and down the drawingroom. "No one would harm them, no one would touch them, I know-I feel sure. But a night, upon the heather; a night in the cold damp air, would kill them, or sow seeds of an illness from which they could never recover! O my God! protect and cherish my darlings!" and, falling upon her knees, she poured forth a long and fervent prayer for mercy. And for many hours the unhappy mother remained alone, praying and weeping. The glorious sunset had long since died away; the shades of evening crept up over the land, and as night came on myriads of little stars peeped out over the beautiful grounds of Kilteen Castle. "How lovely, how peaceful it all looks," sighed Mrs. O'Connor, as she raised her eyes and looked at the landscape. "How grand and noble is Bray Head, as it stands out against the sky, away, far away, in the distance. But, oh, what a cruel place for my darlings to rest. upon this cold night!" and, bowing her head, she sobbed aloud. "Julia, dearest, do not grieve so much," said Mr. O'Connor, entering the room at this moment. "Do not weep, dearest," and he put his arm round his unhappy wife. "The children!" she cried. "Oh, Jim, the children!" "I have had news of them," he answered; "good news; and I have come to tell it to you, lest you should be frightened at my long absence. They were not at the station, but I met Hanlon's gamekeeper in Bray; he saw the children and "Yes, but where ? Oh! where are they?" "He saw them some hours ago on the road near his master's gate. They were tired after their walk, for they had lost themselves when they had strayed away from nurse. They had no money to come home by train, and he helped them into a gipsy's van. The woman promised to take them with her and drop them at their own door. But they must have gone on to Dublin by mistake. John is getting ready the car, and I am going to drive along the road and look for them." "Gone-in a gipsy's van! Oh, Jim, they have been stolen!— they -" and, overcome with terror and anguish, Mrs. O'Connor fell fainting at her husband's feet. "Poor darling, this is a cruel trial for you," he whispered. "God grant it may not last long, and that I may soon find those unhappy children." Then raising her in his arms he laid her on the sofa. "Please, sir, the car is ready," said a servant at the door. 66 Very well. I must go at once. Come in, Mary, and look after your mistress. Make her go to bed when she recovers consciousness," and, pressing his lips to his wife's, he sighed heavily and hurried from the room. A LOUGH BRAY. BY ROSE KAVANAGH. LITTLE lonely moorland lake, Its waters brown and cool and deep- A picture for my heart to keep. For rock and heather, wave and strand, The amber ripples sang all day, And singing spilled their crowns of white That streaked the sober sand with light, The amber ripples sang their song, Some flow'rs were there, so near the brink Their shadows in the wave were thrown; And, over all, the summer sky Shut out the town we left behind; 'Twas joy to stand in silence by, One bright chain linking mind to mind. Oh, little lonely mountain spot! Your place within my heart will be Apart from all Life's busy lot A true, sweet, solemn memory. NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. HAS the example of the Sovereign Pontiff now happily reigning proved contagious in ecclesiastical circles? The present Pope is a poet. Professor Brunelli has published a very elegant volume, entitled "Carmina Leonis XIII." Whether or not so illustrious a precedent has emboldened the sacred Muse, it is certain that more than one Irish priest has ventured lately to put his name on the title-page of a book of verses. The pastor of Athleague has become the Laureate of Total Abstinence; a namesake of the venerable Irish translator of Moore's Melodies has published "The Song of Freedom, and other Poems;" and a namesake of Moore's dull biographer has put forth a trilogy more than necessarily unworthy of the beautiful names of Emmanuel," "Madonna," and "Erin." And now we have "Via Crucis, and other Poems," from the pen of the Very Rev. John A. Jackman, Provincial of the Irish Franciscans (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son), brought out in a singularly elegant volume of two hundred pages. The themes are all exclusively pious and religious, and therefore well adapted for pure and refined poetry, in spite of old Dr. Johnson's dictum. Several poets, with little or no religious feeling to inspire them, have chosen such themes simply on account of their poetical character. An Irish son of St. Francis, himself a true and sweet poet, could not but choose such subjects also. Another point worthy of commendation is Father Jackman's abundance of rhyme. Writers of small poems are often too parsimonious in this respect |