"Sylvia," said the father, when De Courcy had left the room, "what
is to be the end of this?"

"Unless we hear from O'Neil, father, I am afraid it cannot be
prevented. De Courcy has been changing for a year past; I am only
surprised that you did not sooner notice it. What I said in jest
has become serious truth; he has already half forgotten. We might
have expected, in the beginning, that one of two things would
happen: either he would become a plodding Quaker farmer or take to
his present courses. Which would be worse, when this life is
over,--if that time ever comes?"

Sylvia sighed, and there was a weariness in her voice which did not
escape her father's ear. He walked up and down the room with a
troubled air. She sat down, took the guitar upon her lap, and
began to sing the verse, commencing, "Erin, my country, though sad
and forsaken," when--perhaps opportunely--Susan Donnelly entered
the room.

"Eh, lass!" said Henry, slipping his arm around his wife's waist,
"art thou tired yet? Have I been trying thy patience, as I have
that of the children? Have there been longings kept from me,
little rebellions crushed, battles fought that I supposed were
over?"

"Not by me, Henry," was her cheerful answer. "I have never have
been happier than in these quiet ways with thee. I've been
thinking, what if something has happened, and the letters cease to
come? And it has seemed to me--now that the boys are as good