
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
67 

that belongs to the women of that island. 
Neatness was all that could be ascribed to 
her dress—it deserved that. 
Letters are frequently asked for in a 
newspaper-oftice, in reply to advertisements 
—so we bade the young woman go to the 
front office and inquire of the clerks. 
She had been there, and there was no one 
but a boy, who could not give her the infor- 
mation. 
So we inquired the name. 
“ Kitty M‘Innes ; but perhaps it will be 
Catherine on the letter,” said she, “as that 
is my name.” 
We looked on the letter-rack in the front 
office, among the “A. B.’s,” the “ X. W.’s,” 
the “PQs,” ete., but saw none for 
Catherine. 
Returning, we inquired to what advertise- 
ment the letter was to be an answer. 
‘« Advertisement !—to no advertisement— 
it would be in answer to my letter.” 
“And from whom did you expect a 
letter ?”’ 
The young woman looked much confused 
—hbut apparently considering the question 
pertinent, she said, “ From Thomas S| 
We saw at once that she had, as hundreds 
before had done, mistaken our office for the 
post-office, and the name given was that upon 
the letter which we had some months before 
sent from our letter-box to that of the post- 
office. 
“He has not written, then,” said Catherine, 
in a low voice, evidently not intended for our 
ear. 
“ But he may have written.” 
“Then where’s the letter?” said she, 
looking up. 
‘“‘ At the post-office, perhaps.” 
And we took Catherine by the hand, and 
led her to the door, and pointed out the 
way to the post-office. 
“ You will ask at the window,” said we; 
‘but as the clerks are young men, you need 
not tell them from whom you expect the 
letter.’ 
““Not for the world,” said she, looking 
into our face with a glance that seemed to 
say there was no harm in telling us. 


We must have used less than our usual 
precision in directing Catherine to the post- 
office, as quite half-an-hour afterwards, when 
visiting the place, we saw her at the window, 
receiving the change and a letter from one 
of the clerks ; and the impatience—shall we 
say of woman, or of love ?—induced Catherine 
to break the seal at the door. A glow of 
pleasure was on the cheek of the happy girl. 
We would not have given a penny to be 
informed that Thomas was well, and was 
coming in the next packet. We felt anxious 
to know whether Thomas would come, but 
the names of such persons rarely appear 

among the passengers of the Liverpool 
packets, being commonly included in that 
comprehensive line, ‘‘ and two hundred in the 
steerage.” 
So we gave up all hopes of knowing when 
Thomas would arrive, but concluded that we 
should see the name with that of Catherine 
in the marriage list, to which we had deter- 
mined to keep a steady look. * ‘4 
It was but a short time afterwards, that 
we did indeed see the name of Thomas in 
the papers. He was one of the passengers 
in a ship cast away below New York, of 
whom nearly every soul perished, and 
Thomas among the rest. 
We had never seen Thomas, but had some- 
how cherished such an interest in his fate, 
that we felt a severe shock at its annuncia- 
tion; and what must have been the feelings 
of Catherine, with her ardent, sanguine, 
Irish temperament ? Loving deeply as she 
must have loved, and hoping ardently as she 
must have hoped, what must have been her 
feelings ? 
We paused, a few weeks afterwards, to 
mark the young grass shooting, green and 
thick, in Ronaldson’s grave yard; and to see 
the buds swelling on the branches of the 
trees that decorate that populous city of the 
dead ; when a funeral, numerously attended, 
wound slowly round the corner of the street, 
and passed into the enclosure. It was the 
funeral of an Irish person—we knew by the 
numbers that attended, and as the sexton 
lowered _the coffin down into the narrow 
house, the place appointed for all the living, 
we saw engraved upon a simple plate,— 
CATHERINE M‘INNES. 
The small sum of money which Catherine 
had deposited in the savings’ fund, to give a 
little consequence to her marriage festival, 
had been withdrawn to give her ‘decent 
burial.” 
There is a spice of this fine feeling among 
our ENGuisH girls of low degree. We do 
not say it is universal,—far from it. But we 
can vouch that it does exist, having often- 
times proved it. 
True love, in the intenseness of its purity, 
is indeed a Heavenly gift ! 

MORE PERSUASIVES TO GOODNESS. 
Ir we want any extra ‘“‘inducement”’ to become 
good, do we not find that inducement in everything 
we at this present time behold in the fields and 
lovely lanes, which are clothed in garments of sur- 
passing beauty? Every animal, every insect that 
crosses our path, looks, and is ‘‘happy.” The 
golden grain waves its lovely locks with the most 
fascinating elegance, and seems to give “a hint” 
to its fair beholders to “‘take a lesson from its 
book.” The Book of Nature is the onty book, it 
would appear, that our ladies do not read. Why 
should they not begin this very day to turn over 
the first leaf? 


