periods of the day, and outlined her studies from his own slender
stock of knowledge. He even hired a little piano for her and
followed up what he had begun years before in Ireland--imbuing her
with a thorough acquaintance with Moore and his delightful melodies.

One wonderful day they had an addition to their small family. A
little, wiry-haired, scrubby, melancholy Irish terrier followed
O'Connell for miles. He tried to drive him away. The dog would turn
and run for a few seconds and the moment O'Connell would take his
eyes off him he would run along and catch him up and wag his over-
long tail and look up at O'Connell with his sad eyes. The dog
followed him all the way home and when O'Connell opened the door he
ran in. O'Connell Had not the heart to turn him out, so he poured
out some milk and broke up some dry biscuits for him and then played
with him until Peg came home. She liked the little dog at once and
then and there O'Connell adopted him and gave him to Peg. He said
the dog's face had a look of Michael Quinlan, the Fenian. So
"Michael" he was named and he took his place in the little home. He
became Peg's boon companion. They romped together like children, and
they talked to each other and understood each other. "Michael" had
an eloquent tail, an expressive bark and a pair of eyes that told
more than speech.

The days flowed quietly on, O'Connell apparently satisfied with his
lot. But to Peg's sharp eye all was not well with him. There was a
settled melancholy about him whenever she surprised him thinking
alone. She thought he was fretting for Ireland and their happy days
together and so said nothing.

He was really worrying over Peg's future. He had such a small amount