ng-house
in the east of London.

London! Eily's heart leapt as she heard the word. Was not that the great
city _he_ had spoken of, where she would be worshipped for her lovely
face, and where great lords and ladies would bow down before her beauty?

Shyly, but with determination, she expressed her desire to go there with
her aunt. Well-pleased, Mrs. Murphy consented to take her, inwardly
gloating over her good luck, for she saw that Eily was neat and handy,
and had the "makings" of a good servant. It would enable her to save the
wages of her present drudge, and a girl who had no friends near to
"mither" her could be made to perform wonders in the way of work.

So a day was fixed for their departure, and Eily's eyes regained their
old sparkle, her spirits their wonted elasticity.

Without a regret or fear she was leaving the little cabin in which she
was born, her whole heart full of rapture that she was going to see
_him_, and of the joy he would experience at the sight of her. Small
wonder, then, was it that Dermot sighed as he walked homeward that bleak
November day, for his heart was well-nigh broken at the thought of
parting from the girl he loved.

As he rounded the shoulder of the mountain the clouds parted, and a
shaft of bright sunlight lit up his path. Dermot looked eagerly before
him. There was Eily standing outside the cabin door, bare-footed,
bare-headed. Cocks and hens strutted in and out of the thatched cottage,
a pig was sniffing at a heap of cabbage-leaves that lay on the ground,
and a black, three-legged pot, the chief culinary utensil in a peasant's
cot, stood just outside the doorway. Eily was busy knitting, and
pretended not to see the tall form of her lover until he drew near, then
she looked up suddenly and smiled.

"Is it knitting y'are, Eily? Shure it's the lucky fellow he'll be
that'll wear the socks those fairy hands have made!"

"Is it flattherin' me y'are, Dermot? because if so ye may go away!
Shure, 'tis all the blarney the bhoys does be givin' me is dhrivin' me
away from me home. Maybe ye'll get sinse whin I lave ye all, as I will
to-morrow!"

[Sidenote: "Will ye Stay?"]

"Oh, Eily, jewil, don't say that! don't!" he pleaded, his blue eyes
looking earnestly into hers. "Whin ye go, you will take all the sunshine
out of me poor heart; it's to Ameriky I will go, for nothin' will be the
same to me without you, mavourneen! Eily, Eily, will ye stay?"

But Eily was firm.

"Faith, thin