Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman. Caldwell Willie Walker

upon our own strength and skill, and more upon Him to defend and take care of us. And after all what is man's puny strength against the dangers of this life? It is our all powerful Heavenly Father who must save and protect us."

      "True enow, Martha, true enow," broke in the voice of my grandmother, who appeared just then in the front doorway, her ever busy fingers picking up and knitting off the stitches from her shining needles with steady click, "but God has naewhere promised to do His ain work, and man's as weel. He led the children o' Israel to the Promised Land, and then bade them fight for a' they wanted o' it, nor did they get ony more than they could win an' hauld. There's yet need, plenty, for men who can shoot in this colony, and likely to be for mony lang days to come. Let the lad alone, Martha; he's fearless, an' sometimes rash, but neither bloodthirsty nor a brawler," and as my aunt stepped into my mother's room, adjoining, to lay aside her bonnet, I heard my grandmother add in somewhat impatient tones,

      "I'm glad enow to ken ye're sae pious, Martha, but dinna get to be fanatical, nor in the way o' going about a' the time with reproof in your een, an' a sairmon on your lips. You but cheapen our holy religion sae, an' harden the young an' the unconverted."

      My grandmother spoke with a rich Irish accent that it is impossible to indicate, for it was not a brogue, nor a dialect; it was merely a full-throated, and somewhat rolling sound which she gave to certain words. Her language too, was freely sprinkled with Scotch words, and these she pronounced with broad Scotch accent. The combination was delightful, and her blended speech added a peculiar charm to the fascinating stories she could sometimes be beguiled into telling.

      "It is strange doctrine, mother, that one may be too pious," answered my aunt, who certainly did not number meekness among her Christian virtues. Nor was my grandmother meek spirited, and a warm argument would likely have followed had not my mother, whose sweet and placid temper was the oil ready, at all times, to be poured on the threatening argument, entered the back door at that moment.

      With Dulce, the cook woman, to help her she had been making candles all morning, in the back kitchen – my father having killed a fat beef but a few days before – and on seeing Aunt Martha's horse led to the stable she had but waited to hang up the last dipping, and to tidy herself before coming in to welcome her sister.

      "How do you do, Sister Martha," she began cheerily, "I'm more glad than ordinarily to see you; indeed I was just wishing I could send for you to eat some of the suet pudding we are boiling for dinner; I know you are fond of it."

      "Yes, suet pudding is a favorite dish of mine," said my aunt, solemnly and with a deep sigh, "but I am little in the mood to enjoy anything this morning, Rachael."

      "And what troubles you noo, daughter?" asked grandmother kindly, but with no note of anxiety in her cheery voice.

      "I thought you looked pestered, child," added my mother in soothing tones; "take this chair, it sits easier than that one, and tell us what's on your mind."

      "'Tis about the letter that came yesterday to Thomas," and Aunt Martha paused, to whet still further her listeners' curiosity, and meantime, heaved another deep sigh.

      "Well, Martha, who writ the letter, an' what was't writ aboot?" somewhat impatiently from grandmother.

      "'T'was writ by a cousin of Thomas', in Baltimore, to bring him news of his Sister Mary's death, and of her husband's, Owen O'Niel, of the small pox plague within three days of each other," and again Aunt Martha sighed.

      "But you ken but little o' Mary O'Niel, child, and 'tis near fifteen years syne you ha'e seen her," remarked my grandmother, a touch of impatience still audible in her voice.

      "They left an only daughter," continued my aunt, "and made dying request that the child, Ellen, might be sent to Virginia to the care of Mary's brother. And now Thomas says there's naught else to do but that he must start at once to bring her to our house."

      "Thomas is right, Martha; there's naught else to be doon; – the child canna weal come sae far alone, e'en by the stages. But I see nae sic sair trouble in that, though I'm nae denyin' 'twill be something of a trial to you to spare Thomas for four or five weeks. At the same time 'twill be a welcome opportunity to get some muslins, cap laces, and sic like things; and Martha, you micht hae him fetch you the table and bed linens you hae wanted for sae lang," and grandmother's voice sounded as cheery as a bird's morning carol, while she suggested these substantial compensations.

      "And William will be glad to come over every few days, sister, to advise with Thomas, who, though he's but a boy yet, is a sensible, steady lad, and can see that the negroes carry out his father's directions."

      "'Tis not the sparing Thomas I am most troubled about, Rachael, though I like not the prospect of his absence, and son Thomas is in all things a child yet. That which kept me awake last night was the thought of having an O'Niel and a Catholic in my household. 'Tis bitter, indeed, after all our people have suffered from that name and that religion."

      "Tut, tut, Martha; you fret me," said my grandmother, almost shrilly, only shrillness was not possible to her rich voice. "I'd ne'er keep an old sore running that I micht hae the nursing o' it. And was na' the great, great grandmaither of yourself an O'Niel and a Catholic? 'Tis nae fact we hae reason to be greatly proud of, I weel ken, yet O'Niel is nae low Irish name, nor is the Catholic religion, though it be full of superstition, sae bad as some folks believe. I hae known, indeed, charitable and pious Catholics, and there was a time when an O'Niel stood staunch friend to our family, else I misdoubt me there'd hae been nae McElroys in America to-day."

      "And Ellen is only a child, sister," put in my mother; "we'll make a good Presbyterian of her in no-time."

      "Ne'er by driving," said grandmother; "an O'Niel was ne'er yet driven to do anything."

      "She's fourteen or more, thinks Thomas, and knowing the bigoted and stubborn spirit of the O'Niels I doubt not she is set in her idolatrous religion by this time," sighed Aunt Martha.

      "But she may be a sweet, tractable child, sister, and since you've no daughter of your own, and I've always been sorry you did not have – Jean's such a pleasure to us – this Ellen'll doubtless grow up to be a great comfort to you."

      Getting no response to this cheerful doctrine but another sigh, my mother got up, and said briskly:

      "Come, Martha, I want you to see my cheeses. I never made finer ones, I'm sure."

      The invitation proved too tempting to resist, and Aunt Martha followed mother into the back entry, wearing still the look of a much burdened woman. She would forget her role, presently, however, in the interest of inspecting jellies, and butters, and sampling the new cheeses. My mother was a famous housewife, and her domestic products were the admiration of the neighborhood.

      "Grandmother," I said, joining her as soon as they were out of hearing, "who is this Ellen O'Niel who is niece to Uncle Thomas?"

      "Well, laddie, 'tis a tangled story, but I will e'en try to unravel it for you, if you'll hold this hank of yarn till I wind me a good ball."

      There was nothing, save hunting, I liked so well as my grandmother's stories; so I drew my chair in front of her and held my arms as still as I could, while she wound dexterously, and told me the origin of Ellen O'Niel.

      To-day I can shut my eyes and call up the picture of the "big room" in the comfortable log house where I was born and raised. Its walls of hewn logs, brown from smoke and age, and chinked with yellow plastering, were almost covered with wild skins, and stag antlers; these last used as rests for muskets, and powder horns. Over its small paned, deep silled windows hung speckless muslin curtains; upon its floor was spread a gayly striped rag carpet; and the wooden rocking-chairs were made soft with skins or feather cushions. The high mantel-shelf was ornamented, at either end, with squat wide-lipped blue pitchers, and between them two shining brass candle-sticks, having trays and snuffers to match. In winter these pitchers were filled with dried grasses and "everlastings;" in summer with flowers of the marigold, poppy, heartsease or love-in-mist, and the great fireplace below with feathery asparagus branches. At all times it was a homely, comfortable room, but cosier perhaps on winter evenings, when great logs blazed high above the dog-irons; when between the candles on either end of the long table against the wall, sat plates of ginger bread, and pitchers of persimmon beer; when apples sputtered