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Chapter III.
Lost.
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HE dark night is stealing on; the beat of the heavy March rain sounds dreary against the windows of the sick-room, where the mother lies in a transient, fitful slumber, watched over by the elder daughter and her husband. The sick woman knows not as yet but Nattie sleeps, as usual, in her little bed-room that opens out of the kitchen; but the sleeper there to-night is a heavier one than Nattie. Her loud, long-drawn breathing greets the ears of the watchers. It is Irish Bridget, who was too timid to go to her usual sleepng
