ere is a nave, broad and deep, comprising more than a third of the
whole building, with its old broken stone pavement, and high up, carven
upon one of its walls the head of St. Faughnan, its patron saint,--a
hideous saint, indeed, if he resembled that ancient carving. How often
have I gazed upon his unlovely visage, and wondered in my childish
fashion why the grace that comes from so divine an origin had not the
power to render his servant's face more beautiful!

In these later years they have improved (?) and modernized the old
structure. A stone pulpit, huge and clumsy, erected by subscription to
the memory of some elderly inhabitant, stands like a misshapen blot
before the altar rails; a window, too broad for its length, and
generally out of proportion, throws too much light upon the dinginess
within; the general character of the ugly old place has lost something,
but assuredly gained nothing, by these innovations. It is hard to put "a
piece of new cloth on an old garment" successfully.

The village itself stands upon a high hill; the ocean lies at its feet.
From Moyne House one can see the shimmer of the great Atlantic as it
dances beneath the sunbeams or lashes itself into furious foam under the
touch of the north wind. The coastguard station, too, stands out,
brilliant in its whitewash, a gleaming spot upon the landscape.

To the left of the station lies Ounahincha,--a long, deep line of
sea-beach that would make its fortune as a bathing place under happier
auspices and in some more appreciated clime.

Monica, looking down from her height, takes in all the beauties of the
landscape that surround her, and lets the music of the melancholy ocean
sink into her very soul.

Then she lets her eyes wander to the right, and rest with pardonable
curiosity upon Coole Castle, where dwells the ogre of her house. Above
Coole, and about two miles farther on, lies Aghyohillbeg, the residence
of Madam O'Connor, that terrible descendant of one of Ireland's kings;
whilst below, nestling among its firs and beeches, is Kilmore, where the
Halfords--a merry tangle of boys and girls--may be seen at all hours.

Then there is the vicarage, where the rector lives with his family,
which is large; and nearer to the village, the house that holds the
curate and his family, which, of course, is larger. Besides which,
Monica can just see from her vantage-ground the wooded slopes of
Durrusbeg that have lately called young Ronayne master,--a d