ming round her
face. Behind her back hung two children enveloped among the rags in
some mysterious way; and round about her on the road stood three
others, of whom the two younger were almost absolutely naked. The
eldest of the five was not above seven. They all had the same wild
black eyes, and wild elfish straggling locks; but neither the
mother nor the children were comely. She was short and broad in the
shoulders, though wretchedly thin; her bare legs seemed to be of
nearly the same thickness up to the knee, and the naked limbs of the
children were like yellow sticks. It is strange how various are the
kinds of physical development among the Celtic peasantry in Ireland.
In many places they are singularly beautiful, especially as children;
and even after labour and sickness shall have told on them as labour
and sickness will tell, they still retain a certain softness and
grace which is very nearly akin to beauty. But then again in a
neighbouring district they will be found to be squat, uncouth, and in
no way attractive to the eye. The tint of the complexion, the nature
of the hair, the colour of the eyes, shall be the same. But in one
place it will seem as though noble blood had produced delicate limbs
and elegant stature, whereas in the other a want of noble blood had
produced the reverse. The peasants of Clare, Limerick, and Tipperary
are, in this way, much more comely than those of Cork and Kerry.

When Herbert and Clara reached the gate they found this mother with
her five children crouching at the ditch-side, although it was still
mid-winter. They had seen him enter the demesne, and were now waiting
with the patience of poverty for his return.

"An' the holy Virgin guide an' save you, my lady," said the woman,
almost frightening Clara by the sudden way in which she came forward,
"an' you too, Misther Herbert; and for the love of heaven do
something for a poor crathur whose five starving childher have not
had wholesome food within their lips for the last week past."

Clara looked at them piteously and put her hand towards her pocket.
Her purse was never well furnished, and now in these bad days was
usually empty. At the present moment it was wholly so. "I have
nothing to give her; not a penny," she said, whispering to her lover.

But Herbert had learned deep lessons of political economy, and was by
no means disposed to give promiscuous charity on the road-side. "What
is your name," said he; "and from where do