f his. He used to stand
Debating his eyes on the Irish titles of the books in the window, and
repeating the words he read aloud to himself until the passers-by turned
to look at him. Once he entered a low-browed, dingy shop merely because
the owner's name was posted over the door in Gaelic characters. It was
one of those shops to be found in the back streets of most large towns
which devote themselves to a composite business, displaying newspapers,
apples, tobacco, and sweets for sale. The afternoon light, already
growing feeble in the open air, had almost deserted the interior of
the shop. At first Hyacinth saw nothing but an untidy red-haired
girl reading in a corner by the Ught of a candle. Ho asked her for
cigarettes. She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter.
It was one of O'Growney's Irish primers, dirty and pencilled. Hyacinth's
heart warmed to her at once. Was she not trying to learn the dear Irish
which the barefooted girls far away at home shouted to each other as
they dragged the seaweed up from the shore? Then from the far end of the
shop he heard a man's voice speaking Irish. It was not the soft liquid
tongue of the Connaught peasants, but a language more regular and
formal. The man spoke it as if it were a language he had learned,
comparatively slowly and with effort. Yet the sound of it seemed to
Hyacinth one of the sweetest things he had ever heard. Not even the
shrinking self-distrust which he had been taught by repeated snubbings
and protracted ostracism could prevent him from making himself known to
this stranger.

'The blessing of God upon Ireland!' he said.

There was not a moment's hesitation on the part of the stranger. The
sound of the Gaelic was enough for him. He stretched out both hands to
Hyacinth.

'Is it that you also are one of us--one of the Gaels?' he asked.
Hyacinth seized the outstretched hands and held them tight. The feeling
of offered friendship and companionship warmed him with a sudden glow.
He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice would
break if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out a
long Gaelic greeting, scarcely knowing what he said. Perhaps neither
the man whose hands he held nor the owner of the shop behind the counter
fully understood him, but they guessed at his feelings.

'Is it that you are a stranger here and lonely? Where is your home? What
name is there on you?'

'Maiseadh, I am a stranger indeed an