on her cheek, from which the air of America has not yet drank all the
rose light. From her fairy ear of waxen white hangs a golden pendant,
the treasured gift of one far distant. Before her, on the table, lies
_Chambers' Journal_, which always found its way a welcome visitant to
our settlement, soon after the spring fleet had borne it over the
Atlantic. She has been reading one of Mrs. Hall's stories, which, good
as they are, are yet little admired by the Irish in America. The darker
hues which she pourtrays in the picture of their native land have become
to them all softened in the distance; and by them is their country
cherished there, as being indeed that beautiful ideal "first flower of
the earth, and first gem of the sea." A slight indignant flush, raised
by what she had been reading, was on her brow as I entered; but this
gave place to the heart-crushing look of disappointment I had often seen
her wear, as I replied in the negative to her question, if there was a
letter for her. From where, or whom she expected this letter I knew not,
yet as still week after week passed away and brought her none, the same
shade had passed over her face.

And now, reader, as the night wanes apace, and you no doubt are wearied
with this day's journey through our settlement, I shall wish to you

"A fair good night, with easy dreams and slumbers light,"

while I, who like most authors am not at all inclined to sleep over my
own writing, will sketch what I know of the history of Grace Marley,
whose memory forms a sweet episode in my transatlantic experiences.

Grace had been left an orphan and unprovided for in her own country,
when a relation, who had been prosperous here, wrote for her to come
out. She did come, and at first seemed happy, but 'twas soon evident her