"I should think not, indeed!" interrupted Gertrude. "Oh, I see plainly what it will be. We shall lead nice lives with that awful woman!"
"I don't think you'll find, as I've told you before, that that 'awful woman' as you call her, will trouble herself with our companionship for long," said Maud; "and I cannot say that when she once comes into the house as mistress I should feel the least desire to remain here."
"And she'll do anything with poor uncle," said Gertrude; "he dotes on her."
"Naturally," said Mr. Benthall; "and she is very much attached to him?"
This question was rather addressed to Maud, and she answered it by saying quietly, "I suppose so."
"Oh, nonsense, Maud!" said Gertrude; "uncle's an old dear kindest, nicest old thing in the world, but not for a girl to like in—well, in that sort of way, don't you know! Not the sort of man to be a girl's first love, I mean!"
"Are you sure that your uncle is Miss Ashurst's first love?"
"We never heard of any other. What is it, George—Mr. Benthall, I mean? You've found out something! Oh, do tell us!"
"Did you know anything of a Mr. Joyce, who was one of Mr. Ashurst's masters?"
"Certainly—a small, slim, good-looking young man," said Maud.
"Good-looking, eh?" said Mr. Benthall.
"Should not you say so, Gertrude?"
"Well, I don't know," said Gertrude; "he was too short, I think, and too dark. I like a—I mean" And Gertrude broke down, and flew the flag of distress in her face again.
"What of Mr. Joyce, in connexion with the subject on which we were talking, Mr. Benthall?" asked Maud.
And then Mr. Benthall told them all he had heard from Mrs. Covey.
Gertrude went alone with Mr. Benthall to the gate, and they were a very long time saying their adieux. When she came back to the house she found her sister in the hall.
"You found the gate very difficult to open, Gerty!" said Maud, with her grave smile.
"Yes, dear, very difficult! Do you know, dear,—he hasn't said anything, but I think Mr. Benthall is going to ask me to be his wife!"
"Well, Gerty, and what then?"
"Then I shall have a home to offer you, my darling! a home where we can be together, and needn't be under the rule of that beautiful, superior creature!"
The Irish in America.
There are few more suggestive sights to a thoughtful mind than that which may be witnessed, several days in each week, at Queenstown, the harbour of Cork. It is there that the hundreds of poor Irish emigrants who every week flock on board the westward-bound Atlantic steamers, walk for the last time on their native soil, and gaze for the last time upon their dear home-friends. No one can see the embarcation of these multitudes of forlorn creatures, the long painful parting from country and from friends, the crowding of the steerage deck as the steamer slowly swings out of the harbour into the open sea, the tearful eyes, covering the rude visages with honest moisture, straining to catch a last glimpse of the dear people who stand on the shore, the exclamations and throwing out of arms as the beloved slopes of the Irish coast gradually recede from the view, no one with a heart can see this sight unmoved, or without feeling a keen sympathy for the motley, even ludicrous-looking, crowd which is huddled together in the "forward" part of the ship.
Why have they left their native land, and what will they do when they reach America? Poverty and hardship, the impossibility of existing in their own crowded country, the accounts which have come from friends in America, and the wonderful narratives of lucky neighbours, who have returned to tell how the poor man thrives on the Western Continent, these are the causes which have determined the bold venture. What they will do when they reach the other shore, few of them have the remotest conception. They are haunted by visions of broad acres and vast meadows which await the first comer; by prospects of great fortunes easily acquired; by hopes of penetrating to the mines, and drawing thence endless nuggets of gold and silver. Some go in response to the urgent entreaty of relatives who have already tried the experiment. This old man is going to join his daughter Biddy, a prosperous maid-of-all-work in New York; or to see his lusty son, Pat, who has subdued a government-given tract of forest and prairie land in the Far West, so that it now yields him goodly crops of wheat, and enables him to live in ease and contentment. These brawny fellows have had a message from a townsman, who is happy as a prosperous builder of railroads, and has told them that they have only to get over, to prosper likewise.
With what self-denial have the poor souls hoarded up their pennies and sixpences, until they grew to the six sovereigns requisite to buy a steerage passage! And how crowded and huddled together are they over there in the for-
