watchword of a treasonable association which merged in the greatest conspiracy ever attempted against the State. Menaced in the heart of her dominions by her turbulent subjects-with a possible foreign war looming in the future-England appears to be in difficulty, and this presents an opportunity too favourable to let pass. This is the time the enemies of the Church take to discover fresh cause of discontent, and they now come forward with their imperious demands to have the Establishment dismantled. They do not, indeed, ask to participate in the spoil; but there is such a thing as casuistry; and if the predecessors of the present race of ultramontane bishops could declare they had no intention of meddling with the Irish Church, the next generation will have overcome their scruples, and be ready, not indeed to participate in, but to enjoy all the honours and emoluments. But in Ireland the Romanists have never been satisfied with concessions, and they have returned treason for favour, and reproach for kindness. Rome resembles the two amiable daughters of the horse-leech, which cry," Give, give;" and with all her getting, her rapacious appetite becomes the more keen.

Another consideration which suggests itself is, that the members of the Irish Church are all loyal, whereas the Roman Catholics have been by their representatives declared to be mostly disloyal. What good end can there be served to treat loyal subjects as if they were rebels, and disloyal subjects as if they were faithful? "Incidit in Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdim;" and in seeking to quiet the clamours of the Romanists, a race pre-eminently loyal and true, and who have contributed to the refinement and welfare of the country, may be forced to become in turn agitators, and less careful of the prestige of England.

Besides, were the programme carried out, it would not have the effect of rendering the malcontents one whit more loyal or content. The restless and aggressive spirit of Romanism would find sufficient cause for fresh discontent in the existence even of toleration to other religious bodies. A collateral attempt is now being made to destroy united education in Ireland, and to obtain for the priesthood a preponderance in the management of the schools. Were this plan perfected, the consequences would be disastrous in the extreme, and the youth of the country would be trained in the belief that loyalty to the church of the sevenhilled city is paramount to all other considerations.

The past history of Ireland is fraught with melancholy inci

dents. A people who ought to have been united are sundered by religious differences. The present state of Irish affairs is in a great measure owing to the concessions made from time to time to one of the parties which avails itself of every political exigency to aggrandize itself at the expense of the others. And now that insidious attempts are being made to sap the foundations of the constitution, it is the duty of the Legislature to protect these landmarks which are so well defined, and to maintain in their entirety all those institutions which make this country pre-eminently Protestant. Concessions often denote weakness; and in the present aspect of affairs a continuance of this temporising and expedient' policy would be worse than a crime,—it would be an error.

TWO CHRISTMAS-TREES.

CHAPTER I.

POOR GUY CONISTON.

It wasn't snowing-we don't get a white world very often in these degenerate days, but it was raw and cold, and a mist-so thick that Mr. Coniston's coachman, butler, footman, all in one, said you might cut it with a knife—had hidden the sky and the bare trees all day. It was darker than ever now (for the clock had struck five), but Mr. Coniston and his wife were sitting opposite to each other by the fire, and neither of them had thought of ringing the bell to have the curtains drawn. They were both evidently dressed to go out, but for all that something serious was being discussed between them, and the vicar's face looked a little sad in the firelight.

Felicia, coming in softly and looking towards them, said to herself, "Politics!" which was a term the children always used when the heads of the family were busy over private matters. This had been the case often enough, for the vicar was a poor man, and there were two girls and two boys to provide for. Felicia, the eldest of these, was just twenty-one, and was going to make her first appearance at a regular grown-up party tonight. Of course she was ready an hour or two before the time, but that didn't matter. When she showed herself to the children in the schoolroom, Ruth-sixteen, small, and a romp-performed a pas seul round her, and said, "Never mind, it'll be my turn next Christmas; I shall have all the more time to grow:" and the boys, having manufactured a pair of horns out of the prickliest bits of holly they could find, tried to stick it into her wreath; but she got away from them, and went to the drawingroom, where the vicar and his wife sat talking.

Felicia stole up to the piano and began playing softly. It isn't the fashion to pick heroines to pieces and describe eyes and noses minutely, so perhaps it will be enough to say that

Felicia looked very nice. She had a white dress on and some flowers about it, and there was a wreath in her hair. She had a fair complexion, with a little pink in the cheeks, and her hair was fair too; her enemies—that is, young ladies who were jealous of her-called it red, but it wasn't.

There were several pieces of music on the plano, but Felicia played without notes, until suddenly her eye, wandering over one of these pieces, lighted upon the name Fritz Hensel stuck in one corner. Something, which wasn't so much a smile as a general brightening, came over her face as she took it up, and just then, though she was not trying to listen, she caught something that her father was saying:

"Even if we had known before there would have been no need to put off going this evening."

"Certainly not. They only say that the young man is dying, I suppose?"

"He may be dead by this time, though."

"Who is dying, papa?" said Felicia, facing round on the music-stool.

"My young cousin, Guy Coniston," answered the vicar. "You never knew him.”

Felicia mused a little, and then twisted back again to the piano and the piece marked Fritz Hensel. She didn't know or care anything about Guy Coniston, and yet it seemed a hard thing to be dying young, and just as a new year was beginning, with all its hopes and possibilities. She couldn't realize it, somehow. Death looked a great way off when she began to think about him; she would have been sorry to find him any nearer. How did the young man feel whom his breath was already touching? Felicia managed somehow to draw so much sadness out of her minor thirds and plaintive sixths that her mother was roused into attention.

What is that you are playing, Felicia?"

"Only my last lesson, mamma; a piece of Mr. Hensel's."

Mrs. Coniston's face contracted visibly.

She considered a little, and then bent forward towards her husband :— "Will this Hensel be there to-night?"

"I don't know, my dear. Very likely."

"You make too much of your organist," said Mrs. Coniston"put him too much on a level with ourselves. Everybody seems to do it. He is a sort of mania, I think," she added, impatiently.

'Why, my dear, Hensel is a gentleman, as well born as you or I; and he is the greatest help I ever had in the parish. I thought you liked him?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Coniston, a little confused. "In his place of course I do, as your organist and Felicia's musicmaster. By the way, those lessons must be put a stop to."

Meanwhile Felicia went on with her minor thirds, and thought of poor Guy Coniston dying, and her own happiness. She was very happy. She liked Christmas. Everybody grumbled at the cold weather, but for her part she liked that too; and she liked going to the party, and oh! she was glad to be alive. Poor Guy! Though it was nothing to her whether he lived or died, she pitied him. But Felicia had yet to learn that it was something to her, and the knowledge was not long in coming. Presently the vicar went away to see about the carriage, and then Mrs. Coniston called her daughter to her. As a mother perhaps she couldn't help a little glow of pride as she looked at the girl standing there in all her bright happiness; but then pride is a cold thing at best, and there was not a spark of tenderness in the mother's heart towards any little foolish weakness which Felicia might cherish for a friend no longer exactly on a level with her.

"Felicia," said Mrs. Coniston, "I wish to speak to you seriously. Your father has hitherto been a poor man, as you know, and I'm sure the struggles I've had-But there," said the vicar's wife, stroking her white gloves complacently, "thank goodness, that's over. By the death of this young Coniston my husband comes into the whole Coniston estate. It is entailed property, and he is the next heir"

"But, mamma," ventured Felicia, "the poor fellow isn't dead yet."

"The poor fellow, as you call him, is dying. His one lung is gone already, and though they have taken him south the doctors say there is no chance. Consequently, our position is at once altered, and I shall expect you to be very particular in your choice of acquaintances. It is a duty we owe to society Do you quite understand?"

now.

"Yes, mamma."

But poor Felicia began to be sensible of a very childish desire to cry. She didn't think she cared about the new position, and she was quite sure that if she owed a duty to society she would a great deal rather not pay it.