of all whom the special train had brought down failed to return
in it. Mary O'Dwyer slipped out of the convent before the speeches
began, and wandered away towards the desolate stony hill where the
stream which turns the factory mill took its rise. It grieved her to
miss the cup of tea which a friendly nun had led her to expect; but even
tea might be too dearly purchased, and Miss O'Dwyer had a strong dislike
to listening to what Augusta Goold described as the 'sugared hypocrisies
of professional liars.' Besides, she had her cigarette-case in her
pocket, and a smoke, unattainable for her in the convent or the train,
was much to be desired. She left the road at the foot of the hill, and
picked her way along the rough bohireen which led upwards along the
course of the stream. After awhile even this track disappeared. The
stream tumbled noisily over rocks and stones, the bog-stained water
glowing auburn-coloured in the sunlight. The ling and heather were
springy under her feet, and the air was sweet with the scent of the
bog-myrtle. She spied round her for a rock which cast a shade upon the
kind of heathery bed she had set her heart to find. Her eyes lit upon
a little party--a young man and two girls--encamped with a kettle, a
spirit-stove, and a store of bread-and-butter. Her renunciation of the
convent tea had not been made without a pang. She looked longingly at
the steam which already spouted from the kettle. The young man said
a few words to the girls, then stood up, raised his hat to her, and
beckoned. She approached him, wondering.

'Surely it can't be--I really believe it is----'

'Yes, Miss O'Dwyer, it really is myself, Hyacinth Conneally.'

'My dear boy, you are the last person I expected to meet, though of
course I knew you were somewhere down in these parts.'

'Come and have some tea,' said Hyacinth. 'And let me introduce you to
Miss Beecher and Miss Elsie Beecher.'

Miss O'Dwyer took stock of the two girls. 'They make their own clothes,'
she thought, 'and apparently only see last year's fashion-plates. The
eldest isn't bad-looking. How is it all West of Ireland girls have such
glorious complexions? Her figure wouldn't be bad if her mother bought
her a decent pair of stays. I wonder who they are, and what they are
doing here with Hyacinth. They can't be his sisters.'

While they drank their tea certain glances and smiles gave her an
inkling of the truth. 'I suppose Hyacinth is engaged to the elder one,'
s