THE

CONNELLS OF CASTLE CONNELL.

CHAPTER XXII.

MARY CONNELL.

“PHILIP will be home in a few hours now, Aunt. Tonight, by the last mail perhaps, or to-morrow at the latest, without fail, I think he says."

It was little Marie, or rather Mary Connell, who spoke. She had grown into a quiet, sensible girl-not pretty, Philip said, though others might differ from him on that point: she was not a regular beauty,-no doubt of that; but she had a very attractive face, fine teeth, abundant chesnut hair, a complexion neither fair nor dark, the art of looking graceful under all circumstances, and such a bright sweet smile! That smile changed her whole face-it lighted up her somewhat pensive hazel eyes, and brought out two charming dimples that lay perdue in her cheeks, and wrought such a wondrous transformation that you were quite ready to agree with Miss Nickie's estimate, that she was a sweet, winsome lassie. She had become quite indispensable to the old lady-the very apple of her eye; not that she spoiled

her strong conscientiousness and a certain acerbity of temper, the result of time and ill-health, alike prevented that; not that Miss Nickie was cross, but there was certainly enough of spirit to prevent the wine from souring or cloying from over-sweetness. She had become a great invalid, and required much and constant personal attention. She was also somewhat exacting, and she had every now and then many things to make her peevish and fretful. She had many cares still: Philip was wild and extravagant in his ways, as his father had been, and far less amenable to advice or control; and she lacked now the undaunted strength of mind and body, the elastic spirits, that had enabled her to fight with her troubles. It is true also, that temperaments like hers, so full of mental and bodily activity, do not make good invalids. They lack the patience that comes naturally to gentler natures; they are apt to be a trouble to themselves and to those about them, and irritability and occasional ill-humour are frequent escape-valves to the latent excitement and unrest that consumes them.

Miss Nickie was not exempt from these infirmities. Shut up in the ladies' room, she wearied incessantlyshe could not bear to be left alone, she must always have some one with her, and must be amused or read to.

Mary, of course, was her constant companion; she took great delight in her society; her very presence soothed her pain and irritation; and yet, from her very love, she was somewhat selfish and tyrannical. It never occurred to her that her little daughter, as she was fond of calling her, might like to go out sometimes, or make friends with the young ladies of her own age in the neighbourhood-fortunately, it never occurred to Mary either. Her gentle, conscientious nature inclined her to home affections and home pleasures. She had found out her special path of duty-devotion to her aunt; and