of this miserable world.'

'No, May,' said Alice, thinking instinctively of the child, 'you mustn't
die. Your trial is a terrible one, but people before now have got over
worse. I am trying to think what can be done.'

Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in her
eyes. She clasped Alice's hand. Neither spoke. The little brown bird
pursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay the
sky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into this
vision of beautiful peace.

At last Alice said: 'Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble? Does he
know--'

'He was away, and I didn't like to write it to him; his departure for
Australia took me quite by surprise.'

'Have you told your mother?'

'Oh no, I'd rather die than tell her; I couldn't tell her. You know what
she is.'

'I think she ought to be told; she would take you abroad.'

'Oh no, Alice dear; it would never do to tell mamma. You know what she
is, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing the
Scullys; and then, I don't know how, but somehow everybody would get to
know about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only a
question of time.'

'No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this--at least, not if I can
help it.'

'But you can't help it.'

'There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop in
Galway.'

'It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girl
cannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know where
she has gone.'

Alice's eyes filled with tears.

'You might go up to Dublin,' she said, 'and live in lodgings.'

'And what excuse should I give to mother?' said May, who in her despair
had not courage to deny the possibility of the plan.

'You needn't tell her where you are,' replied Alice; and then she
hesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception she was practising.
But her unswerving common sense coming, after a moment's reflection, to
her aid, she said: 'You might say that you were going to live in the
convent. Go to the Mother Superior, tell her of your need, beg of her,
persuade her to receive and forward your letters; and in that way, it
seems to me that no one need be the wiser of what is going to happen.'

The last words were spoken slowly, as if with a sense of shame at being
forced to speak thus. May raised her face, now aflame with hope and joy.

'I wonder if it is possible to--' A moment