ep her warm, or a ribbon to give a gleam of colour to
the drab little clothes.

On great occasions he would buy her a new dress, and then Peg was the
proudest little child in the whole of Ireland.

Every year, on the anniversary of her mother's death, O'Connell had a
Mass said for the repose of Angela's soul, and he would kneel beside
Peg through the service, and be silent for the rest of the day. One
year he had candles, blessed by the Archbishop, lit on our Lady's altar
and he stayed long after the service was over. He sent Peg home. But,
although Peg obeyed him, partially, by leaving the church, she kept
watch outside until her father came out. He was wiping his eyes as he
saw her. He pretended to be very angry.

"Didn't I tell ye to go home?"

"Ye did, father."

"Then why didn't ye obey me?"

"Sure an' what would I be doin' at home, all alone, without you? Don't
be cross with me, father."

He took her hand and they walked home in silence. He had been crying
and Peg could not understand it. She had never seen him do such a thing
before and it worried her. It did not seem right that a MAN should cry.
It seemed a weakness--and that her father, of all men, should do it--he
who was not afraid of anything nor anyone--it was wholly unaccountable
to her.

When they reached home Peg busied herself about her father, trying to
make him comfortable, furtively watching him all the while. When she
had put him in an easy chair, and brought him his slippers, and built
up the fire, she sat down on a little stool by his side. After a long
silence she stroked the back of his hand and then gave him a little
tug. He looked down at her.

"What is it, Peg?"

"Was my mother very beautiful, father?"

"The most beautiful woman that ever lived in all the wurrld, Peg."

"She looks beautiful in the picture ye have of her."

From the inside pocket of his coat he drew out a little
beautifully-painted miniature. The frame had long since been worn and
frayed. O'Connell looked at the face and his eyes shone:

"The man that painted it couldn't put the soul of her into it. That he
couldn't. Not the soul of her."

"Am I like her, at all, father?" asked Peg wistfully.

"Sometimes ye are, dear: very like."

After a little pause Peg said:

"Ye loved her very much, father, didn't ye?"

He nodded. "I loved her with all the heart of me and all the strength
of me."

Peg sat quiet for some minutes: then she asked him a question very