bog wather!  Oh! the poor-pale face—­and the poor sickly eye—­up in the cowld mountains, and no one to think about you, or to give you comfort!  Whisht now—­be good—­och, why do I say that, poor white-head—­for sure you were always good!  Well wait—­bog wather—­ah, no—­but wait here—­or come wid me—­I won’t lay you down, for I love you, my poor white-head; but come, and you must have it.  My mother’s gone out—­and she’s not good; but you must have it.”

He rose, still holding the pillow like a child in his arms, and going over to a cupboard, took from it a jug of milk, and so completely was he borne away by the force of his imagination that he actually poured a portion of the milk upon the pillow.

The act seemed for the moment to dispel, the illusion—­but only for a moment; the benevolent heart of the poor creature seemed, to take delight in these humane reminiscences; and, almost immediately, he was. proceeding with his simple, but touching little drama.

“Well,” said he, “that’s better than cowld bog wather; how would the rich like to see their sick childre put on cowld wather and cowld pratees?  But who cares for the rich, for the rich doesn’t care about huz; but no matther, white-head—­if you’ll only just open your eyes and spake to me, I’ll give you the cock.”  He gave a peculiar call, as he spoke, which was perfectly well known to the bird in question, which immediately flew from the roost, and went up to him; Raymond then gently laid the pillow down, and taking the cock up, put his head under one of his wings, and placed him on the pillow where he lay quietly and as if asleep.  For many minutes he kept his eyes fixed upon the objects before him, until the image in his mind growing still stronger, and more distinct, became at last so painful that he, burst into tears.

“No,” said he, “he will never open his eyes again; he will never look upon any one more:  and what will she do when she hasn’t his white head before her?”

Whilst poor Raymond thus indulged himself in the caprices of a benevolent imagination, his mother was hastening to the house of Mr. Hickman, the former agent of the Castle Cumber property, with the intention of rendering an act of justice to an individual and a family whom she had assisted deeply and cruelly to injure.  Whilst she is on the way, however, we will take the liberty of introducing our readers to Mr. Hickman’s dining-room, where a small party are assembled; consisting of the host himself, Mr. Easel, the artist, Mr. Harman, and the Rev. Mr. Clement; and as their conversation bears upon the topic of which we write, we trust it may not be considered intruding upon private society to detail a part of it.