en the corners, where the country store and the smithy
flourished in primitive dignity. The roadside hostelry soon had a
place on the highway, and deep into its centre was Nancy McVeigh's.

Nancy McVeigh's tavern was famed near and far. In earliest days the
name was painted in letters bold across the high gabled face, but years
of weather had washed the paint off. Its owner, however, had so long
and faithfully dominated its destiny that it was known only as her
property, and so it was named. A hill sloped gently for half a mile,
traversed by a roadway of dry, grey sand, flanked on either side by a
split-rail snake fence, gradually widening into an open space in front
of the tavern. The tavern had reached an advanced stage of
dilapidation. A rickety verandah in front shaded the first story, and
a gable projected from above, so that the sill almost touched the
ridge-board. A row of open sheds, facing inwards, ranged along one
side of the yard, terminated by a barn, which originally had been a low
log structure, but, with the increase of trade, had been capped with a
board loft. Midway between the sheds and the house stood the pump, and
whilst the owners gossiped over the brimming ale mugs within the house,
the tired beasts dropped their muzzles into the trough. Some of the
passers-by were of temperate habits, and did not enter the door leading
to the bar, but accepted the refreshment offered by Nancy's pump, and
thought none the less of the woman because their principles were out of
sympathy with her business. The place lived only because of its
mistress, and an odd character was she. Fate had directed her life
into a peculiar channel, and she followed its course with a sureness of
purpose that brought her admiration. She was tall, raw-boned, and
muscled like a man. Her face was deeply lined, patient, and crowned
with a mass of fine, fair hair turning into silvery grey, and blending
so evenly that a casual observer could scarcely discern the change of
color. It was her eyes, however, that betrayed the soul within, their
harshness mocking the goodness which was known of her, and their
softness at times giving the lie to the roughness which, in a life such
as hers, might be expected.

Nancy McVeigh, the tavern and the dusty Monk Road were synonymous, and
to know one was to know all three.

Nancy was within the bar when two wayfarers, whose teams were drinking
at the trough, entered.

"It's a foine day, Mis