ou have
not slept in it," she whispered.

"I was just coming in to see if yours could be any worse," I replied.
"Do you mean to say that you have tried it, courageous girl? I blew out
my candle, and then, after an interval in which to forget, sat down on
the outside as a preliminary; but the moon rose just then, and I could
get no further."

I had not unpacked my bag. I had simply slipped on my macintosh,
selected a wooden chair, and, putting a Cromwellian towel over it,
seated myself shudderingly on it and put my feet on the rounds, quoting
Moore meantime--

'And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"

Francesca followed my example, and we passed the night in reading
Celtic romances to each other. We could see the faint outline of
sweet Slievenamann from our windows--the mountain of the fair women of
Feimheann, celebrated as the hunting-ground of the Finnian Chiefs.

'One day Finn and Oscar
Followed the chase in Sliabh-na-mban-Feimheann,
With three thousand Finnian chiefs
Ere the sun looked out from his circle.'

In the Finnian legend, the great Finn McCool, when much puzzled in the
choice of a wife, seated himself on its summit. At last he decided to
make himself a prize in a competition of all the fair women in Ireland.
They should start at the foot of the mountain, and the one who first
reached the summit should be the great Finn's bride. It was Grainne Oge,
the Gallic Helen, and daughter of Cormac, the king of Ireland, who won
the chieftain, 'being fleetest of foot and longest of wind.'

We almost forgot our discomforts in this enthralling story, and slept
on each other's nice clean shoulders a little, just before the dawn. And
such a dawn! Such infinite softness of air, such dew-drenched verdure!
It is a backward spring, they say, but to me the woods are even lovelier
than in their summer wealth of foliage, when one can hardly distinguish
the beauty of the single tree from that of its neighbours, since the
colours are blended in one universal green. Now we see the feathery
tassels of the beech bursting out of their brown husks, the russet hues
of the young oak leaves, and the countless emerald gleams that 'break
from the ruby-budded lime.' The greenest trees are the larch, the
horse-chestnut, and the sycamore, three naturalised citizens who
apparently still keep to their native fashions, and put out their