unexpected appearance of an old woman, who, in the scarlet cloak which
is the picturesque characteristic of the female peasantry of the south,
was moving slowly down the avenue to meet us, uttering that peculiarly
wild and piteous lamentation well known by the name of 'the Irish cry,'
accompanied throughout by all the customary gesticulation of
passionate grief. This rencounter was more awkward than we had at first
anticipated; for, upon a nearer approach, the person proved to be no
other than an old attached dependent of the family, and who had herself
nursed O'Connor. She quickened her pace as we advanced almost to a run;
and, throwing her arms round O'Connor's neck, she poured forth such a
torrent of lamentation, reproach, and endearment, as showed that she was
aware of the nature of our purpose, whence and by what means I knew not.
It was in vain that he sought to satisfy her by evasion, and gently
to extricate himself from her embrace. She knelt upon the ground, and
clasped her arms round his legs, uttering all the while such touching
supplications, such cutting and passionate expressions of woe, as went
to my very heart.

At length, with much difficulty, we passed this most painful
interruption; and, crossing the boundary wall, were placed beyond her
reach. The O'Gradys damned her for a troublesome hag, and passed on
with O'Connor, but I remained behind for a moment. The poor woman looked
hopelessly at the high wall which separated her from him she had loved
from infancy, and to be with whom at that minute she would have given
worlds, she took her seat upon a solitary stone under the opposite wall,
and there, in a low, subdued key, she continued to utter her sorrow in
words so desolate, yet expressing such a tenderness of devotion as wrung
my heart.

'My poor woman,' I said, laying my hand gently upon her shoulder, 'you
will make yourself ill; the morning is very cold, and your cloak is but
a thin defence against the damp and chill. Pray return home and take
this; it may be useful to you.'

So saying, I dropped a purse, with what money I had about me, into her
lap, but it lay there unheeded; she did not hear me.

'Oh I my child, my child, my darlin',' she sobbed, 'are you gone from
me? are you gone from me? Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen, you'll never come
back alive to me again. The crathur that slept on my bosom--the lovin'
crathur that I was so proud of--they'll kill him, they'll kill him. Oh,
voh! voh!'

T