r no tongue can tell.

At last there is a general movement, as well as general clamour of
voices and much gesticulation. All, old and young, with the exception of
the girl, gather round the woman in the red cloak, and seem to be urging
her to do something that she does not like to do. They point to the
girl, and the appeal is not in vain.

The woman moves slowly and somewhat sulkily towards one of the boys,
takes him by the hand, and returning to the gate, opens it, and walks
down the good broad road that leads to the farm, the boy trotting by her
side. We watch the bright red cloak till it disappears amongst the trees
that surround the house; and turn again to wonder what can be the matter
with the girl. She neither moves nor speaks, although her kindly
companions in turn endeavour to attract her attention.

In the course of a few minutes the red cloak is again seen coming up the
road, closely followed by another figure. We soon hear sounds of earnest
pleading, in a broad Irish brogue, from our friend of the red cloak. As
they approach the gate sound distinctly the words,--

'It's all thrue, my leddy--as thrue as the blessed gospel. I'm afeered
she's dyin' if yer honour's glory won't lend us a hand.'

'I don't know how to believe you, my good woman, for some of you come
every week and deceive me with all kinds of stories.'

'An' she's Welsh, yer honour. She's come to find out her friends, my
leddy! God bless ye, ye've a kind eye and a gintle voice,'

Red cloak spoke the truth. The woman who is now added to the group has
truly 'a kind eye and a gintle voice.' She is short and small of form,
of middle age and matronly appearance; neatly and even handsomely
dressed, as becomes the mistress of one of the largest and wealthiest
farms of a country where large farms are rare. She has a handsome,
placid face, and looks as if the world had moved on quietly and happily
ever since she had been on its surface. Her dark eyes, that must once
have been bright and piercing, are softened down to gentleness by the
quieting hand of time; and the black hair is slightly streaked with
white by the same unsparing fingers. But for this, age would seem to
have little to do with the comely dame who is now bending her
neatly-attired head before the shabby-looking girl against the wall,

'What is the matter with you, my poor girl?' says the 'gintle voice,'

These kind words have a power that the equally kind ones of the rough
friends aro