Connecticut western news., 1883-03-14
Pretty Mary Shea.
BY W. s. FRENCH.

BY W. s. FRENCH.
 was walking one evening in my pri- vate pleasure grounds, after day of heavy labor in the office, when I thought perceived a pair of bright eyes watch ing me through the leaves of some holly bushes with which the wood abounds. l stopped immediately and asked who was there.
 "Oh, indeed, your honor, it's only me; and I know it's against the rules of the office to come here. But shure, wasn't l waiting at the office door all day, and they wouldn't let me in, be- cause, they said, was we'll able to hold out stlil, and wasn't nigh so weak as many of the creatures that was there. And that was true enough; but then they didn't know that I had ten long miles to go home before night and so. as some said your honor was good man, though some said not, I thought I would just chance it for once, and may be your honor would find time to speak to poor, desolate orphan like me, even though It IS against the rules"
 She had watched my countenance with the quickness of an Irish peasant dur ing the whole time she was speaking; and in fact I felt sure she had prolonged her statement for that sole purpose, in order to form an estimate of her success, or vary her line of advance according as circumstances disclosed themselves. I saw this perfectly at the time; but my interest In her vivacious courage was so great, and my admiration of her beauty so impossible to conceal, that she saw in moment, though I had not yet spoken word, that she had won her point.
 'sAh ] well I knew your honor had a good, kind heart within you," said she, coming forward with graceful animation, under cover of her well-turned fattery. "And now, may be I'd never have another opportunity, and oh just listen to me till tell you what I have to say, fo1 mine IS sore, sore sorrow!'
 In moment her whole countenance, almost her form, had changed. Her courage-some of which she had eyi. dently derived from her beauty-seemed to have departed. Tears filled her eyes as she looked down upon the ground and even her form seemed to lose many inches of its height. I could scarcely have thought that the same human being was before me, as she now stood abou to tell her tale of sorrow.
 ''Mary Shea is my name," said she s'that IS, my maiden name, and for tha matter, am not married.''
 Married P I exclaimed, 'swhv, vol seem scarcely seventeen years of age What is your case? What do you wan me to do ?"
 "In tell your honor that" replied she "What want your honor to do is. t, put Eugene's name in the books, as ten ant for the little place I have up in tn mountain"
 "And who is Eugene? and how cam you to have little place of your own and you so young as you are ?''
 I'll tell your honor all about it, {" sh replied. sThe way of it all was this your honor was not here in the huner, year." Ia term frequently used amongs the peasantry to describe the famine) "but them was terrible times. I wa only little slip of 8 girl then. But ID father had little place up in the mour tains, the same as what was now talkin about. Well, you see, he was an oul man, and my mother was sickly, an they had no other child but me, and th place was very small, and when the D, tatoes blackened, sure they had no or but God to look to. Father, says T fear yell die, and mother, too, if J don't get something to ate.'
 "Wen, ye see, we lived far up in u mountains, and no meal or anythin could be got there, except what brougl myself-and it was ten long miles fro Kenmare. But still, says I, T wor let father die if can help it ' So V had a few hives of honey, and I used slip over to Kenmare, now and then, vii a hive. and bring back little meal father. And won't tell your honor he when l say that sorra ha perth we hs to live on except just the few hives honey; and knew when they were ou and I had no money to buy meal, V might just lie down and die.
 "Well, sure enough, after a time tl honey was all sold. With that I fed n father and myself for another wea, month and when the meal was out, f ther says to me, Mary dear, it's no u striving any longer against the hungt I can't stand it. I'm weak and fail and not able to go out to the pub works, and I might as we'll die
 the house SIS on the roads; & now mind, Mary dear, when I d bury me beside your mother in the g, den.' 'Oh, father dear, don't talk tI way, says l I'll just go out and see can't get something that will keep t life in ye yet. So father said nothir but just lay down on the bed, as if
 wait till I came home. We'll, I b