E. DE M.* BY THE AUTHOR OF "EMMANUEL." HILD CHILD LD of Mary." Name of honour God Himself to win that title From his heavenly throne came down. O Immaculate, unfallen, Tarnished by no breath of sin ! And thy heart is meek and mild; God forgive those erring Christians Who would spurn the tender name "Lo, your Mother!" said He, dying; "Child of Mary." May my feelings, Thoughts, words, deeds, and heart's desires, All befit a lowly creature Who to such high name aspires. Ne'er shall sin (for sin could only) From my sinless Mother sever— Child of Mary then, for ever. These initials are appended to their signature by many Enfants de Marie-to a certain Congregation of whom, nestling under the mantle of our Lady of Loreto, these lines are dedicated; and also to the holy and amiable memory of Mother Concepcion Lopez whom God has just taken from them, December 16th, 1879. R. I. P. THE WILD BIRDS OF KILLEEVY. A TALE. BY ROSA MULHOLLAND, AUTHOR OF HESTER'S HISTORY," BOOK SECOND. CHAPTER VIII. THE JOURNEY. "MASTER," said Kevin, laying his hand tenderly on the shoulder of his beloved friend and benefactor, "I have been about your business. I have had much conversation with the baroness Ida." "I have seen it," said Honeywood, suppressing a sigh. "Will you ask me the result?" "What is it?" "I have counsel to give, if you will allow me." "I am waiting for your advice." "Induce the baroness to disperse the company assembled here, and to set out with us for a few months' travel. land to her." Italy is an unknown "I follow your idea. You think the study of Christian art, the beauty of the scenery, would be soothing to her over-excited mind." "I do." "Then we will try if it can be done." That evening Ida was alone in a small boudoir to which she sometimes retreated for half an hour when weary of the intellectual demands made by her guests upon her feminine brain. She had thrown herself on a sofa, and allowed her thoughts to wander away and dwell restfully on certain fragments of her conversations with Kevin. A knock at the door put an end to her reverie. Mr. Honeywood wished to know if he could speak with her. She sprang up and went to meet him with a blush unperceived in the imperfect light. So little had he noticed her of late that she had begun to fear she had displeased him. He could not but feel an unusual flutter of warmth, a new tenderness in her manner of receiving him. "Her heart is waking," he said to himself; and he attributed the change to Kevin's personal influence. "I only desire her happiness," he reflected, controlling his jealous pain. "I have come to you on an impertinent errand, Ida," he said, smiling. "I want you to turn all these clever people out, and come with me and Kevin and Lisbeth for a little tour in Italy." VOL. VIII., No. 80, February, 1880. 6 Ida started. The overpowering reasons that a fortnight ago had been able to control all her actions through her imagination had become shaken and feeble since then, and they were standing pale in the distance now, and not at hand to support her resolution. "You told me that you wanted to be happy a little while with your friends, before cruel Fate should take hold of you again. Well, I don't think you have been happy among these male and female philosophers." Ida hung her head. "Not very, Thistleton." "Will you consent to my plan? And if you find you do not like it you can suffer it like other unkind inflictions of Destiny." "It sounds delightful," said Ida, wincing a little at the sarcasm. "But-my father "Counted Italy among the lands of superstition, and would not allow you to visit it. Perhaps if we could ask him now, he might not object to your going." "Perhaps not," said Ida, with a sudden bound of the heart; and then she glanced at her stern theories, the mentors of her life; but they still stood pale in the distance, looking at her, and did not approach. With a sense of release, if only for a time, she sprang on to the consideration of the details of the scheme. "But what could we do with Lisbeth? She cannot sleep unless her bed is going from north to south. And the beds in the inns would be going all kinds of ways." Honeywood looked puzzled. "She must catch the electric currents while she is asleep," explained Ida. "If they pass her cross-wise she would lose her rest, and finally, perhaps, go out of her mind." Her voice trembled on the last words with a sudden sense of fun, and their eyes meeting, she and Honeywood both burst out laughing. "I never noticed that it was ridiculous before," said Ida. "It is such a real matter to her, poor old dear!" "I will undertake to have all the beds moved," said Honeywood; "if need be two or three times in the night." With a recklessness that astonished herself, Ida declared her readiness to go as soon as the philosophers should take their departure. This did not seem likely to occur soon, and there is no knowing how long the trip would have had to be postponed only for a casual remark dropped one morning among the guests by Mr. Honeywood. He simply said that the Baroness Ida had got a headache; and that there had been one or two cases of smallpox in the neighbourhood. Before nightfall the house was emptied. Lisbeth protested till the last hour that nothing would induce her to cross the mountains; but when the moment of departure arrived she and her baggage were found in a state of readiness at the door. Once among the Alps, flying along the valleys of the Hinter-Rhein, with a trusty friend on each side, and even Lisbeth won to something like cheerfulness by the attentions paid her and the beauty of the scenery, Ida was obliged to own that Destiny was not so bad as it had hitherto seemed. Her old enemies, the haunting theories, still kept aloof. When she looked over her shoulder she still saw them, standing, as if waiting their opportunity to return and pounce upon her happiness. But as the days wore on and the journey proceeded their outlines became more indistinct, and at last they seemed to get lost in the golden mist of mountain-peak and cloud. The plan of the travellers was to remain in the North of Italy while the warm weather lasted, and later to proceed onward towards the South. Before crossing the Alps they had made a point of visiting Cologne, and slept there a night in a hotel which had been the mansion of a wealthy collector of curiosities and objects of art. The present owner had purchased it with its contents, and thrown it open to travellers, without removing any of its singular furniture. Kevin, ascending the museum-like staircase, and looking round on the strange, inanimate companions with which he shared his room, thought the house like a quaint porch through which they were issuing on a journey that was to be memorable for the rest of their existence. By an odd coincidence Ida shared this thought. "I have a curious feeling," she said, pausing on the long corridor, where the walls were lined with extraordinary objects; where bat-like trophies hung out of ceiling, and where the candles of the three friends shone like glowworms in the sinister darkness. “I have a feeling as if I had been in this house once before in a dream. And I knew in the dream that it was to be to me a meeting-place with friends, and a new starting-point in life." Honeywood reflected. "These are the fancies that have made her such an easy prey to theorymongers." And he said, slily: "Are you sure it was only in a dream, my cousin ?" "I am not sure," she said, flushing and disturbed. me to consider." "Do not ask "I share in the baroness's feeling," said Kevin; "I have had somewhat the same fancy in my mind." "Poets both," said Honeywood, shaking his head. "I am a person of the merest common-sense; and I have no feeling about this musty old house-except that I shall be pleased to get out of it. In the meantime, I would recommend sleep to my friends, rather than dreams." "I have been beaten out of my bed by bells," said Ida, the next morning. "I feel bruised and sore with them as if they had really belaboured me in the flesh." "The air has been quivering under them all morning," said Honeywood. "How strange it must be to live always in a place where such a storm is let loose from the belfries every morning!" As they spoke more bells showered about the windows and made the cups and saucers vibrate upon the table. The loves and graces on the painted ceiling above their heads seemed to thrill and dance to the music. Ida shuddered a little at the continuous sound. She had been taught a horror of church bells from her childhood. "Be patient with me, Thistleton," she said; "I have strange associations with them. I have never been in a church, remember. My father lived and died without seeing the cathedral of Cologne. He cared for art almost as little as religion." "Let us come at once," said Honeywood, "and begin to set right the curious mistakes of his ignorance." Approaching the portal of the mighty cathedral Ida turned pale, and entered the great door, feeling faint with awe. "Do you remember how determinedly you resisted my efforts to take you into Westminster Abbey long ago?" said Honeywood, smiling at her agitation. "I am making amends for it now," she answered, with a glance at Kevin. Honeywood suppressed a groan beholding her glance. "After today your difficulties will never return," he said, gravely. For hours they wandered at will through this palace of wonders. "I have a feeling here," said Honeywood, "which I have never had elsewhere, except in solitudes of lofty mountains, or in the depths of a primæval forest. It is a realising of eternity, a being confronted with the dignity of one's own soul." "What a conception the builders had of worship due," said Ida, with her pale face raised to follow the sweep of the soaring arches. "That is, I think, what impresses me most." "The legend of the building of the cathedral-of the architect, always seems to me full of pathetic meaning," said Kevin, "of the struggle between good and evil in humanity." "The architect sold himself to the fiend, did he not?" said Honeywood. "So runs the tale, I think." "Having conceived of a great work for the honour of God, pride got the better of him, and he called in the aid of Satan to help him to a triumph. The work prospered and was a marvel, but the poor soul tasted no joy in his success. He repented in time, confessed his sin, cast away his ill-bought glory, and escaped away into the mercy of the Lord whom he had originally intended to serve. The work remained unfinished; for Satan, being baffled, had withdrawn his help, and there was no mind great enough to continue unaided what the fiend had begun. Then the Church stepped in and blessed what had been done; and after a cycle or so of prayer purer-minded artists arose |