an old straw bonnet, whose faded
ribbon and tarnished finery betokened its having once belonged to some
richer owner. There was no vestige of any furniture,--neither table nor
chair, nor dresser, nor even a bed, unless some straw laid against the
wall in one corner could be thus called; a pot suspended over the wet
and sodden turf by a piece of hay rope, and an earthen pipkin with water
stood beside her. The floor of the hovel, lower in many places than the
road without, was cut up into sloppy mud by the tread of the sow, who
ranged at will through the premises. In a word, more dire and wretched
poverty it was impossible to conceive.

Darby's first movement was to take off the lid and peer into the pot,
when the bubbling sound of the boiling potatoes assured him that we
should have at least something to eat; his next, was to turn a little
basket upside down for a seat, to which he motioned me with his hand;
then, approaching the old woman, he placed his hand to his mouth and
shouted in her ear,--

"What 's the major after this morning, Peg?"

She shook her head gloomily a couple of times, but gave no answer.

"I 'm thinking there 's bad work going on at the town there," cried he,
in the same loud tone as before.

Peg muttered something in Irish, but far too low to be audible.

"Is she mad, poor thing?" said I, in a whisper.

The words were not well uttered when she darted on me her black and
piercing eyes, with a look so steadfast as to make me quail beneath
them.

"Who 's that there?" said the hag, in a croaking, harsh voice.

"He 's a young boy from beyond Loughrea."

"No!" shouted she, in a tone of passionate energy; "don't tell me a lie.
I 'd know his brows among a thousand,--he 's a son of Matt Burke's, of
Cronmore."

"Begorra, she is a witch; devil a doubt of it!" muttered Darby between
his teeth. "You 're right, Peg," continued he, after a moment. "His
father's dead, and the poor child's left nothing in the world."

"And so ould Matt's dead?" interrupted she. "When did he die?"

"On Tuesday morning, before day."

"I was driaming of him that morning, and I thought he kem up here to the
cabin door on his knees, and said, 'Peggy, Peggy M'Casky! I'm come to
ax your pardon for all I done to you.' And I sat up in my bed, and cried
out, 'Who 's that?' and he said, ''T is me,--'t is Mister Burke; I 'm
come to give you back your lease.' 'I 'll tell you what you 'll give
me back,' says I; 'give me the man