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General the Marquis de Gallifet

The most picturesque figure in the French army is the War Secretary, General the Marquis de Gallifet. He is almost seventy years old. He took part in all the wars of Napoleon III., and in the last one with Germany was as dashing and gallant as in the first one with Russia. He was only twenty-five years old when he was specially mentioned in an order of the day for his heroism before Sebastopol and named Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. He fought in Africa, Italy, and Mexico. In the last-named country he received a ghastly wound at Pueblo. In 1871 he ruthlessly put down the Commune; it was alleged that he shot down rebels without trial. Hence, when he went into the Chamber of Deputies the other day the old Communists cried: "A bas l'assassin !" (Down with the assassin!) During the yearly army maneuvers he has astonished every one by his wonderful skill as a strategist. He is the greatest authority in Europe on cavalry tactics. He has long been an intimate friend of Colonel Picquart. When General de Gallifet accepted the War Secretaryship in the present Ministry there was, therefore, a great deal of opposition among the anti-Picquart people and among the anti-Dreyfusards. To them the doughty old General remarked: "I am very much honored and in nowise frightened."

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By Seumas MacManus

Author of "Through the Turf Smoke," etc.

IS poor mother, after blessing herself with the little brass cross upon her beads, arose from her knees and took again her customary seat by Hughie's bedside. Hughie, who had been lying in a state of obliviousness rather than sleep, had his faculties recalled even by the very little noise his mother's motion made. Her gaze was bent upon her lap, where her hands, still holding the beads, lay limply. For several minutes Hughie watched her, noting the weary and worn look which had asserted itself on her features.

"Mother!" Hughie said at length.

His mother started. "Hughie, a leanbh, sure I thought it was sleepin' ye were. What is it ye want, a theagair?" 8

3

"Mother, what time is it in the night?" 66 'It's atween an hour an' two hours afther midnight, son."

"Mother," Hughie said, "the heart o' ye is bruck with this weary sittin' up with me every night—”

"Arrah, Hughie, Hughie !" his mother said, upbraidingly, "what is it ye're sayin'! Whisht with ye, for God's sake!"

"Och, I know it, mother-I know it. If ye hadn't a holy saint's patience, an' God's helpin' han', ye'd 'a' given in long ago."

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What's come over ye, Hughie, to be givin' such nonsense out of ye? Sure, it's not want to put pain on me ye do, is it?" "What day i' the week's this, tell me, mother?"

"This? It's Friday night."

"Friday night. An' it was on a Monday evenin' I lay down. Mother, was it nine weeks or ten last Monday evenin'? I'm beginnin' to lose count i' the weeks lately meself."

“Och, I don't know, Hughie. that's all God's will, dear."

be ten times ten weeks, I could bear the sickness. But then, the sickness i' the body is nothin'-nothin' at all to the soreness i' the heart. An' it's you has to bear that. That's what puts worst on me, mother dear."

"Do ye

Hughie?"

want to put pain on me,

"Och, mother, don't be talkin' that way. Sure I know, an' I can't help knowin' the pains on ye. Ye're as brave a mother-there's no denyin' as ever was; but let the bravest i' them come through all you come through for the ten weeks gone, an' suffer all you suffered, an' never for all that time sthretch themselves six times upon a bed-let the bravest i' the mothers do that, an' see what heart they'll have at the end of it."

I

"Och, Hughie, Hughie, a mhic!1 can't stand ye at all, at all. You mane to br'ak me patience now, at any rate."

"No, mother, I don't. But if I didn't say much all the time I've been lyin' on me back here, I was thinkin'-thinkin' a great dale. An' when I go, motheroch, don't mother! Mother, dear, don't go for to cry lake that or ye'll throuble me sore! Sure ye know yerself I must go. Didn't Father Mick tell us both it was God's will, an' be reconciled to it? An' didn't you yourself give in that ye were reconciled to it? An' surely I have a good right to be if you are. Mother, when I go I'll have with me the knowledge of the brave woman ye were, an' of all ye sthrove with an' suffered, an' of how ye did yer seven bests to let no wan see the throubles the heart of ye was comin' through. I'll carry that knowledge to heaven with me, mother dear."

His mother could not answer him, for Sure, she was striving hard with the tide of grief which swelled in her bosom and struggled for outlet.

"I know it's God's will, mother--an' God's will be done. I b'leeve it's ten weeks; an' if it was his will that it should

Copyright, 1899, by the Outlook Company. All rights reserved.

My child, pron, à lanniv.
My treasure, pron. à haigur.

Little Hughie was, to-night, possessed by an exceptionally talkative mood.

"If ye sthruggle on, with God's help, mother, for another year, wee Donal, he'll 1 My son.

be able an' sthrong an' wise enough then to go on the road."

Little Donal was then lying at Hughie's back, between him and the wall, and sleeping peacefully.

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"Wee Donal 'll then be able to take the road with the powny an' cart; an' wee Donal 'll be as good a son, an' betther, to ye, mother, than ever I was. Though, I never kep' any money I could help, mother, barrin' (as I toul' ye the other night-an' as I confessed to Father Mick)-barrin' three ha'pence for tibacky, days I got good sale for the fish. But I couldn't do without the tibacky, mother, wanst I give myself the bad habit. Och, mother, if you would only know lonely nights that I'd be thravelin' dhreich an' lonely roads, an' me, too, hungrier than I'd wish-if you would only know the comfort an' the company the tibacky was to me, I knew ye'd forgive me, keepin' an odd wee three ha'pence for it. Now wouldn't ye, mother?"

"Och, Hughie! Och, Hughie !"

"I just knew the kindly heart i' ye couldn't do else than forgive me. But I know, too, I should have always axed yer laive afore I started out on me journey-axed yer laive to let me buy the tibacky for meself. But ye always were so dead again' us smokin' that I was always the coward to ax ye.

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An', ay, many's the long an' many's the dhreich journey, mother, me an' the powny had with our wee cart i' fish. An', thank God, many's the pleasant journey, too-far, far more of that sort than of the dhreich wans. I mind me many's the lovely moonlight night when we traveled along the white mountain road goin' through to Pettigo, or goin' up to Enniskillen an' to Cavan. An' where there'd be miles an' miles of that road through the Pettigo mountains where there wasn't a house or a house, or you wouldn't meet a sinner in broad day, let alone i' the night, I used not to have wan bit fear, mother. You always shook the holy wather on me when I had me cap lifted, blissin' meself afore I left the doore without; an' then, when that time i' night come that I thought yous was sayin' the Rosary here at home, an' I'd have got on me good lonely part i' the road, I'd take me cap in me han' an' I'd say me own 1 Tedious.

wee prayers as me an' the powny jogged on, an' afther that I'd know no fear, no matther howsomiver lonesome it might be. An', och, mother, the lonesomeness, in the middle i' the mountains on a clear moonlight night, had somethin' gran' about it."

"Hughie, a thaisge,1 I hope ye're not disthressin' yerself talkin'," his mother said, laying a gentle hand on his forehead.

Oh no, mother! Oh no, mother! It does me good to think over them things now, an' have you listenin' to me. But then, mother dear, maybe it's too tired to listen ye are ?”

"Oh no, Hughie; no, Hughie a mhic. Tell on-I'd never be tired listenin' to ye."

"Thanky, mother. Och, mother, many an' many's the beautiful journey I had with me wee cart i' fish, if I only begun to tell ye them, settin' off here afore nightfall, an' thravelin' all night, an' bein' in Sthrabane market or maybe Enniskillen market next day, an' sellin' out me wee load, an' maybe clearin' ten or twelve or maybe sometimes fifteen shillin's, an' then, afther a good rest an' a good hearty male, not forgettin' poor Johnnie, startin' on thravelin' back for home the nixt night again, with me gains in me pocket-as happy as the son of a prence; an' havin' an odd wee sleep in the bed i' the cart, too."

"Och, Hughie, it was gran' surely, an' no mistake."

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'Ah, gran' was no name for it, mother! An' then, too, at the boats-when they came in, the men always give me such bargains, bekase of whose son I was.”

"They did, a mhic. They did, Hughie, a thaisge. God bliss them, an' reward them."

"God bliss them over again, an' reward them, mother. They couldn't be kinder to me. An' I often thought it was betther, afther all, that ye wouldn't let me join a boat meself, mother."

"No, no, Hughie, a gradh! No, I wouldn't. Not afther yer poor father, a gradh! No, no! God rest him!"

“God rest him, mother! God rest him! An' small wondher you wouldn't let wan belongin' to ye go upon the sae again. It's a cruel, thracherous sae, mother, God knows! Mother dear, don't cry. What's done can't be undone."

"Ay, ay, Hughie. Ay, a cruel, thrach'My store.

erous sae. But, for all that, we can't say much about it, Hughie-we can't say much about it. Where would we, an' where would all our neighbors be, but for it?"

"That's right, mother. That's right. That's what I've always sayed when I heerd them complainin' again' it, that, like you, lost their nearest an' dearest be it. It's ill our comin'1 to say a hard word again' the sae. Mother, open the doore." "For what, a leanbh? Are you too warm, a paisdin ?” 2

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No; but I want to see the sae, an' to hear it. There's a moon, isn't there?"

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Yis, Hughie dear; there's a moon, an' a bright wan, thank God," his mother said, going to the door and opening it wide.

"Mother, are ye too tired to rise me up a wee thrifle in the bed, an' let me head rest in yer lap, till I see out?"

"Tired? No, no, Hughie. No, no. Aisy, a mhic-gently now. Don't sthress

Now

yerself, a paisdin mhilis. There now,
there now, lay yer head there.
can ye see the sae away below thonder
(yonder)?"

"Yis, yis, mother, thank God. I see it-I see it. The yalla moonlight baitin' down on it has it like flowin' goold. Oh, mother, it's beautiful!"

"It is beautiful, a theagair-beautiful!" The Widow Cannon's house was far up on the Ardaghey hillside, and the sea out at Inver bar and beyond was plainly visible through the door from the corner in which was placed Hughie's bed. A muffled music, too, could be heard ascending from the bar.

Hughie lay quietly gazing, gazing.

After a while two yawls were plainly seen far out darting athwart the yellow path which the moon laid along the

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"I hear no wan callin', Hughie dear." Listen! Don't ye hear? Hear to that! Who's that? What's that?"

"That? Oh, that's the bar, Hughie dear--that's only the bar ye hear."

"Is it the bar? Well, mother, as I was sayin', I thought I had got up an' fed Johnnie, an' then pulled out the rakin's i'the fire, an' made myself a dhrop i' tay in the porringer, an' then harnesshed Johnnie, an' yocked him, an' away with the both of us away to the sthran', to see if the boats was in. An' when we got to the sthran' there wasn't a boat in yet, nor there wasn't a cadger come upon the sthran' with powny or donkey. An' then I saw it was the moon was shinin' bright upon the wathers, makin' it look near like day. There was the big white sthran' sthretchin' from me to the right an' to the 8 are aff, left, with niver another sowl on it but meself an' Johnnie, the powny. An' the Inver Warren over beyont me; an' the Fanaghan banks risin' up black behin' me; an' the full tide washin' in an' br'akin' in wee ripples that had a dhreamy, sing-song sound, at me feet. An' then, far, far away, away out on the wather, I could see the yawls an' the boats hard at the fishin'. An' all at wanst, mother, while I was lookin', what does I see but wan

"Yis, Hughie; they're aff." Then Hughie again relapsed into silence, watching and thinking. A smile A smile of sweet content, his mother saw with gladness, gradually grew upon his countenance and played about his glistening eyes. And presently, to the sweet murmur of the bar, his eyes closed, and he slept.

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1 My sweet.

particular boat comin' glidin' in swift, sthraight along the sort of yalla river that the moon made from where the wathers an' the skies met, right up to my feet; in along this goolden river I sees the boat comin' faster an' faster, far faster than any of the boats ever does; an' it was comin' rowin' right up towards where I was. I seen there was a lady all in white in the bow i' the boat, an' when it come near she was standin' up an' callin' me with her finger. An' she looked iver such a beautiful lady, mother, when they come nearer still. An' when they did come nearer, into within wadin' distance, an' they turned the boat roun' so that they faced me, an' shipped their oars, I knew every wan was in the boat. An', mother dear, who was it but me father was at the helm me father himself! An' James an' Pathrick Magroarty was on the afther oars! an' Feargal McCue on the second bow! Just the very four, mother, that went down in me father's boat. An' Micky Dinnien, that got saved, his oar it was lyin' along the thafts with no wan to pull it!

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But the most curious part of the thing, mother, was that I wasn't wan bit surprised to see them. Lookin' at them there, I knew right well-minded right well--that they were dhrownded; but, all the same, I somehow thought they were still alive-ye know, mother, how dhraims does go that way?"

"Yis, Hughie; yis, Hughie. O God rest their souls, Hughie !"

"God rest them, mother. Well, as I sayed, when the boat come as far as to be near groundin', they swung her round, be Feargal McCue shewin' on his oar. An' then me father, he rises from the helm, an' he says, 'Hughie,' says he, 'we're short of a han' since we lost Micky Dinnien' (him was saved, mind you, mother) 'short of a han',' says he, since we lost Micky Dinnien,' an'-mother, do ye hear?" What! what! a stoir mo chroidhe? What is it?"

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'Who's that callin', mother? Listen! Now-hear it now!"

me very like some wan callin'--very. Well, mother, as I was tellin' ye, me father he says, 'We're short of a han' since we lost Micky Dinnien, and we can come but poor speed on the fishin' grounds. We seen you, Hughie, come down with the powny to the sthran', an' we rowed in, to take ye aboord. Will ye step in like a good chile, Hughie, and pull on the bow oar for us?' But I minded, mother, how you promised, an' made me promise, I'd never take to the fishin' afther what happened; so I had to refuse him. 'Father,' says I, 'I'd like to do as ye ax me, an' take the bow oar. but I can't--I can't. Ye know,' says I, 'how me poor mother's so dead again my ever goin' in wan i' the boats; and ye know her poor oul' heart it's nigh bruck already; an' I'll never have it sayed that I was the manes of br'akin' it out an' out.' 'An' God bliss ye, me son, for mindin' yer poor mother's wishes so,' says me father back again. An' with that, mother, who should appear but yourself up on the bank above me, an' ye called down to me: Go with yer father, Hughie go with ye poor father.' I was ever so glad when I got your laive to go, for I was burning to go. I threw me arms roun' Johnnie's neck, an' I called to ye, Mother, come you down an' take Johnnie home, an' don't forget him while me an' me father's aff.' The white lady she was standin' up in the bow of the boat now, and she was wavin' her hands to me to come. Come, Hughie,' she calls; 'come, wee Hughie! the tide's laivin', and we'll get sthranded when we should be on the fishin' grounds.' I waded into the wather immediately an' out to the boat and I was just almost beside the boat-within a step of it or two, an' the beautiful white lady had her hands sthretched out, to give me a help in over the bows, an' I was sthretchin' out my hands tor'st her, when there's comes a smooth swell that shook an' staggered me where I stood, an' I thought I'd 'a' fallen backwards-but the white lady at that sthretched out further to help me, when I wakened!

66 Mother, wasn't that or not a wondherful dhraim ?"

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"Hughie, Hughie, a thaisge, that's the bar ye hear again. The noise is risin' an' fallin', as ye know it always does. That's the bar, a paisdin." "Is it the bar, mother? It sounds to Micky Dinnien's oar, too, was idle! they sayin' they'd lost Micky !"

Yis; wondherful it was, Hughiemighty wondherful, me poor fella. It was a very sthrange, oncommon dhraim.

1 Store of my heart.

An'

And

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