But Dermot resisted all their overtures; his heart, and all the honest true love that filled it to overflowing, was given to Eily Joyce, the carrier's daughter; for her he would have laid down his strong young life.

It was Eily's duty during the summer to take a daily supply of fresh eggs from her own hens to the proprietor of the hotel, and every morning she presented herself at the door, a bewitching little figure, her basket slung on her arm.

Coyly she glanced from beneath her black silky lashes at the little group of men who, cigar in hand, loitered about the hotel steps, chatting on the chances of sport or the prospects of the weather.

[Sidenote: The Artist's Model]

Beauty like hers could not fail to attract the attention of the artists present, and as day after day went by, flattering remarks and undisguised admiration did not fail to strike home; attentions from the "gentry" were grateful to one who was a born coquette, and Eily's visits were gradually prolonged.

Then one of the artists sought to paint her; he was a young fellow, rising in his profession, and in quest of a subject for his next Academy picture. In Eily he found what he sought, and there, among her own wild mountains, he painted her.

Day after day, week after week, Eily stole from her father's little cabin to meet the stranger, a downward glance in her dark eyes, a blush on her cheek. The handsome face of the artist, his languid manner, his admiration of her beauty, his talk about the great world that lay beyond those mountains, fascinated and bewildered poor simple Eily, who told him in her trusting innocence all the thoughts of her young heart.

So the summer passed by, till at last the picture was completed, and Eily heard, with white face and tearful eye, that the painter was going away.

Time had passed, and the little world among the mountains went on its quiet way, but the summer had left its impress on Eily's heart. No more was her laugh the merriest, or her foot the fleetest; she joined neither wake nor dance, but her eye wore a far-away, thoughtful look, and her manner was cold and somewhat scornful; she looked with contempt on her old comrades, and began to pine for a peep at the great world, where she would see him, and he would welcome her, his beautiful "Queen of Connemara," as he had called her.

As though her unspoken words were heard, an opportunity to gratify her wishes soon occurred. Her mother's sister, who had married young and gone with her husband to England, returned to visit her old home; she was a middle-aged, hard-faced woman, with a shrewd eye and cruel heart; she had worked hard, and made a little money by keeping a lodging-house in the east of London.

London! Eily's heart leapt as she heard the word. Was not that the great city he had spoken of, where she would be worshipped for her lovely face, and where great lords and ladies would bow down before her beauty?

Shyly, but with determination, she expressed her desire to go there with her aunt. Well-pleased, Mrs. Murphy consented to take her, inwardly gloating over her good luck, for she saw that Eily was neat and handy, and had the "makings" of a good servant. It would enable her to save the wages of her present drudge, and a girl who had no friends near to "mither" her could be made to perform wonders in the way of work.

So a day was fixed for their departure, and Eily's eyes regained their old sparkle, her spirits their wonted elasticity.

Without a regret or fear she was leaving the little cabin in which she was born, her whole heart full of rapture that she was going to see him, and of the joy he would experience at the sight of her. Small wonder, then, was it that Dermot sighed as he walked homeward that bleak November day, for his heart was well-nigh broken at the thought of parting from the girl he loved.

As he rounded the shoulder of the mountain the clouds parted, and a shaft of bright sunlight lit up his path. Dermot looked eagerly before him. There was Eily standing outside the cabin door, bare-footed, bare-headed. Cocks and hens strutted in and out of the thatched cottage, a pig was sniffing at a heap of cabbage-leaves that lay on the ground, and a black, three-legged pot, the chief culinary utensil in a peasant's cot, stood just outside the doorway. Eily was busy knitting, and pretended not to see the tall form of her lover until he drew near, then she looked up suddenly and smiled.

"Is it knitting y'are, Eily? Shure it's the lucky fellow he'll be that'll wear the socks those fairy hands have made!"

"Is it flattherin' me y'are, Dermot? because if so ye may go away! Shure, 'tis all the blarney the bhoys does be givin' me is dhrivin' me away from me home. Maybe ye'll get sinse whin I lave ye all, as I will to-morrow!"

[Sidenote: "Will ye Stay?"]

"Oh, Eily, jewil, don't say that! don't!" he pleaded, his blue eyes looking earnestly into hers. "Whin ye go, you will take all the sunshine out of me poor heart; it's to Ameriky I will go, for nothin' will be the same to me without you, mavourneen! Eily, Eily, will ye stay?"

But Eily was firm.

"Faith, thin, I will not, Dermot! I'm weary of my life here; I want to see London and the world. Shure, I'll come back some day with gold of me own, a rale lady, for all the world like the gintry at the castle below."

He took her hands for a moment and wrung them in his, then, with a look of dumb agony in his blue eyes, turned his back upon her and continued his way down the mountain side.

* * * * *

London! was this indeed London, the goal of all her hopes, the place where he lived, and moved, and had his being?



Eily stood, a forlorn, desolate figure, among the crowds that jostled each other carelessly on Euston platform. The pretty face that peeped from the folds of a thick woollen shawl looked tired after the long journey, and her feet—oh, how they ached! for they were unaccustomed to the pressure of the heavy, clumsy boots in which they were now encased.

What a crowd of people, and how "quare" the talk sounded! How grandly they were all dressed! not one with a red petticoat like the new one she had been so proud of only yesterday morning; she glanced at it now with contempt, deciding to discard it before she had been another day in London.

There was a girl sitting on her box not far from Eily; she was evidently waiting for some one to fetch her. Eily eyed her garments with envy; they were of dazzling crimson, plentifully besprinkled with jet; she wore a large hat trimmed with roses; a "diamond" brooch fastened her neck-ribbon, and a "golden" chain fell from neck to waist; but what Eily liked best of all was the thick, black fringe that covered her forehead; such "style" the simple peasant had never before beheld; if only her aunt would be generous she would buy just such a dress as that, but whether or not, the fringe could be had for nothing, and he should see that she could be as genteel as any one else, he need never be ashamed of her.

Her plans and projects were alike cut short by her aunt, who, hot and excited after a wordy war with porters and cabmen, ran breathlessly along the platform.

"Make haste, Eily! how long are you goin' to stand there staring like a sick owl? Hurry up, child; the cabman will be for charging me overtime if you're so slow, and it's bad enough to have to pay ordinary fare all that way."

Eily took up the little tin box that held all her worldly possessions, and followed her aunt to the cab like one in some horrible dream. The fog, the crowds, the noises, the strangeness of everything! With a chill at her warm young heart she took her seat in the cab, and was driven swiftly through the streets. The fog was lifting slightly; she could see the houses and buildings stretching as far as eyes could follow them; houses everywhere, people everywhere; men, women, and children hurrying along the pavements; cabs and carts rolling unceasingly.

[Sidenote: "Is there a Fair To-day?"]

"Is there a fair to-day?" she asked her aunt, who was sitting opposite with closed eyes.

"Fair? Simpleton! it's this way every day, only worse, because this is early morning, and there's only a few about yet;" and Mrs. Murphy's eyes closed again.

The cab rattled along, the streets became narrow and unsavoury, but Eily knew no difference; it was all grand to her unsophisticated eyes; the little shops, with lights that flared dismally in their untidy windows, caused her much excitement and speculation.

At last the cab drew up, and her aunt awoke from her nap in a bad temper.

"Get my things together, quick, and don't dawdle; we're at home now, and you will have to set about your work!"

Eily gathered together bags and boxes and set them down upon the pavement, while her aunt haggled with the driver in a spirited manner; the man went off, grumbling at the meanness of a "couple o' Hirishers," but Eily, not understanding the English manner of using the aspirate, was blissfully unconscious of his meaning.

The house door opened, and an elderly man, looking cowed and humble, shuffled out to meet them.

"We've come at last!" cried out her aunt in a loud voice; "it's the last time I'll take the trouble to visit my folks! What the better am I for all the money I've spent on the trip? Better, indeed! A good deal worse I should say! Take in the box, William! what are you stopping for?" she demanded angrily.

"Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear! I'll take the box in at once, certainly!" The old man hurried to do his wife's bidding, and entered the squalid house. Eily followed with her parcels, and stood in doubt as to what her next proceedings should be, while her aunt bustled away somewhere, on food intent.

The old man, having obediently deposited the box in the region of upstairs, shuffled down again, and approached Eily gently. "Are you her niece, my poor girl?" he whispered, with a backward glance in the direction of his departed spouse.

"I am, sorr," answered Eily; "I am come to help me aunt wid the claning and the lodgers."

"Poor child! poor child! I was afraid so," he murmured, shaking his head dolefully; "but, look here, don't notice her tempers and her tantrums, her carries on fearful sometimes, but least said soonest mended, and if you want to please her keep a still tongue in your head; I've learnt to do it, and it pays best. If ever you want a friend your uncle William will stand by you; now, not a word, not a word!" and he shuffled noiselessly away as loud footsteps drew near, and Mrs. Murphy appeared on the scene.

"Now then, girl, come downstairs and set to work; the fire's black out, and not a drop o' water to be had! It's like him; he's got a brain like a sieve"—pointing to her husband, "and here am I nigh dying of thirst. Drat that bell!" she exclaimed, as a loud peal from upstairs sounded in the passage.

William lit the fire, boiled the kettle, and frizzled the bacon, his wife sitting by criticising the work of his hands, and warming her elastic-sided boots at the fire. She ate her breakfast in silence, and then remembered Eily, who was sitting on the stairs, hungry, forlorn, and desolate, the tears running down her cheeks.

"Come, girl, get your tea!" she called, as she replenished the pot from the kettle; "here's bread for you, better than that rubbishy stuff your mother makes; such bread as that I never see, it's that heavy it lies on your chest like a mill-stone."

Eily took the slice of bread offered her and gnawed it hungrily; she had tasted nothing since the previous evening, as her aunt objected to waste money on "them swindling refreshment rooms," and the stock of bread and cakes her mother had given her was soon exhausted.

"Now, girl, if you start crying you'll find you make a great mistake. I brought you here to work, and work you must! Fie, for shame! an ignorant country girl like you should be thankful for such a start in life as you are getting."

"I'm not ignorant," Eily answered with spirit, "and it's yourself that knows it!"

[Sidenote: "Do what you're Told!"]

"Then get up and wash that there delf—don't give me any imperence, or you'll find yourself in the street; there's others better than you I've turned away, and the work'us has been their end—so mind your business, and do what you're told!" With this parting injunction Mrs. Murphy left the kitchen.

The winter passed—cold, foggy, murky, miserable winter. Eily was transformed. No longer bright, sparkling, and gay, but pale, listless, and weary—the veriest drudge that ever lived under an iron rule. A thick black fringe adorned her forehead, her ears were bedecked with gaudy rings, and her waist squeezed into half its ordinary size; her clothes, bought cheaply at a second-hand shop, were tawdry and ill-fitting, yet they were her only pleasure; she watched herself gradually developing into a "fine lady" with a satisfaction and excitement that alone kept her from giving way altogether.

Her heart was still aching for a sight of her lover, and many a time when her aunt was out she neglected tasks that she might sit at the parlour window and watch with feverish expectancy for the owner of the fair moustache and languid manner that had so completely taken her fancy; but he never came, and she rose from her vigils with a sore heart.

Two friends she had; two who never spoke roughly, nor upbraided her. "Uncle William," himself cowed and subdued, stood first. Sometimes, when the lady of the house became unbearable, and poor Eily's head ached with all the tears she shed, he would take her in the cool of the evening away to a large green park, where the wind blew fresh, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the noisy traffic of the streets was still; there she would rest her weary body, while the old man soothed her gently and stroked her poor hands, all chapped and red with hard work.

Eily's other friend was a lady who occupied a single top room in her aunt's tall house. She was a gentle, white-haired woman, with faded blue eyes and a sweet smile. She had won Eily's heart from the first by the soft, kindly tones of her voice, and the consideration she showed for the severely-tried feet of the little Irish maid. Mrs. Grey taught drawing and painting; her pupils were few, her terms low; it was a difficult matter to make both ends meet, but she managed it by careful contriving, and sometimes had enough to treat her waiting-maid to a morsel of something savoury cooked on her own little stove.

* * * * *

It was May. Eily was standing at the window while Mrs. Murphy went forth on a bargain-hunting expedition.

"Eily, come upstairs, child; I have something to show you." Mrs. Grey was in the room, looking flushed and excited; she was flourishing a book in her hand. Eily's heart beat rapidly as she ascended the steep staircase in the wake of her friend. Was it possible she could have news of him? Then she shook her head, for Mrs. Grey was not in her secret.

They entered the neat little room at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Grey, walking to the table, never pausing to unfasten her bonnet-strings or to unbutton her gloves, opened the book and laid it on the table, exclaiming in triumph, "There you are to the life, Eily! See! it is the picture of the year, and is called 'The Queen of Connemara.'"

A girl with eyes half-defiant, half-coquettish, lips demure and smiling, hair tied loosely in a knot at the back of her proudly-set head, was leaning against the white-washed wall of a thatched cabin—ah! it was Dermot's own! Eily noted the geraniums in the little blue box that he had tended himself.

Eily's heart leapt, and then was still; there were her two bare feet peeping from beneath her thick red petticoat, just as they used in the olden times, and there was the blue-checked apron she had long ago discarded. With face now white, now red, she gazed at the picture, then spelt out its title, "The Queen of Connemara," painted by Leslie Hamilton.

"Arrah, 'tis Misther Hamilton himself! 'twas he painted me!" she cried breathlessly, and sank into a chair completely overcome.

"Then, Eily, you are a lucky girl! Every one in London is talking about 'The Queen of Connemara,' and this Hamilton has made his name and fortune by your picture. Well, well! no wonder you are surprised! Here is the artist's portrait; do you remember him?" She turned over a few leaves of the book and pushed it towards Eily.

[Sidenote: "At Last!"]

Did Eily remember him? Ay, indeed! There were the clear blue eyes, the straight nose, the drooping moustache. Eily snatched up the book eagerly, "Misther Hamilton! at last! at last!" With a great sob her head fell forward on the table, and Mrs. Grey guessed the young girl's secret.

Leslie Hamilton, R.A., was entertaining. In the middle of a smart crowd of society people he stood, the lion of the season. "The Queen of Connemara" had made him name and fame. He was smiling on all, as well he might, for his name was in every one's mouth.

Standing about the studio, chattering gaily, or lounging idly, the guests of Leslie Hamilton were admiring everything while they sipped tea out of delicate Sevres cups. The artist himself was busy, yet his attention was chiefly directed to a beautiful young girl who sat on a velvet lounge, a tiny lap-dog on her knee. She was tall and dignified in mien, with soft grey eyes and bronze-gold hair, among which the sunlight was playing as it stole through a window behind her. She was the beauty of the season, and her father's sole heiress. Cold and distant with others, she was affable and even kind to Leslie Hamilton, and among her friends it was whispered such treatment could only end in one way; and though better things had been spoken of for Bee Vandaleur, the wife of an R.A. was by no means a position to be despised, and if Bee's fancy lay that way, why——! a shrug of its white shoulders, an elevation of its pencilled eyebrows, and Society went on its way.

Leslie Hamilton had taken up his position near the door that he might easily acknowledge each new arrival. He was leaning over the fair Bee Vandaleur, watching the animation in her beautiful face, the grace with which she wore her large picture-hat, and the regal manner in which she sat. He glanced at the gay throng that filled his rooms, growing gayer still as the tinkle of tiny silver spoons increased in number and volume; there was not one to compare with Bee, his Bee as he dared, in his own mind, to call her already. Gentle, dignified, graceful, always sweet and gracious to him, and with an ample fortune of her own, it was no wonder the artist felt that she was worth the winning.

"How I should enjoy a peep at your model!" she was saying as she looked at a rough sketch he was showing her. "Was she as beautiful as you have made her?"

"She was tolerably——" Hamilton hesitated. "Well, of course an artist's business is to make the most of good points, and omit the bad. She was a little rough and troublesome sometimes, but, on the whole, not a bad sitter."

"And her name?" asked Miss Vandaleur.

"Her name? oh, Mary, or Biddy, or Eily Joyce; really I cannot be sure; every one in that part of the world is either Eily or Biddy, and Joyce is the surname of half the population. She was a vain girl, I assure you; no beauty in her first season thought more of herself than did she."

"I do not wonder at that," said Bee gently; "there are few women who possess beauty to such a marvellous degree. If only your Biddy could come to London she would be worshipped by all who were not utterly envious."

Just what he had assured Eily himself nine months back, but it is inconvenient to remember everything one has said so long ago; we live at a pace now, and nine months is quite an epoch in our existence—so many things change in nine months!

[Sidenote: A Startling Visitor]

Hamilton smiled; it was rare to hear one beauty acknowledge another. He bent his head to make some remark that her ear alone might catch, but as he did so a slight stir at the door attracted his attention, and he looked up.

The sight that met his gaze froze the smile on his lips; with a start which he could scarcely conceal the blood left his cheeks; him face became stern and white as death.

There stood Eily herself, behind her the page who did duty at the door. The boy was pulling angrily at her sleeve, and an altercation was going on.

"Shure 'tis himself will be glad to see me, ye spalpeen! Shame on yez to insult a poor girl. Musha, is it Misther Hamilton within and ashamed to spake to his Eily!"

One more moment, then within that room in which art, and beauty, and refinement were gathered in one harmonious whole, a figure stole shyly.

It was a young girl, gaudily attired in a blue dress; a hat, encircled by a long pink feather, crowned a face that was beautiful, were it not that it was marred by its many adornments. Gilt earrings glistened in the ears, a dark curly fringe covered forehead and eyebrows, and the chin was embedded in a tawdry feather boa of a muddy hue. An excited flush lay on her cheeks as she looked at the gay crowd within, searching for the loved face.

At last a joyful recognition shone in her dark eyes, and forgetful of everything and everybody, she rushed across the polished floor to the horror-stricken artist.

"Ah, Misther Hamilton, acushla! shure it's your own Eily has found yez at last!" She caught the artist's hand in her own impulsively—"Arrah, but it's the wide world I have searched, and I've found yez at last!"

Silence had fallen on that part of the room where this little contretemps was taking place. Hamilton saw the looks of wonderment on his guests' faces change into an amused smile as the little comedy progressed.

The girl was looking earnestly at him.

"Shure, you do not forget your own Eily—the girl you made into the picthur, your colleen oge! But maybe it's the jiwils and the clothes that has changed me; it's mighty grand they make me, to be sure, but it was so you should not be ashamed of me I put them on. Arrah, shpake to me, and let me hear the sound of your voice!"

She looked pleadingly into his eyes, but he was speechless. At last by a mighty effort he turned with a sickly smile to some of his guests—

"Here is the original of 'The Queen of Connemara'—scarcely recognisable in her new clothes, is she? Why, Eily, my child," with a paternal air, "whatever brought you here to London?"

It was an unwise question; the answer was plain enough.

"Faith, thin, 'twas yourself, Misther Hamilton! You promised to come back to me, and said you would make me the finest lady in the land; and I waited, but faix, I got sick and sore, so I came to find yez, and it's well-nigh at death's door I was till I heard of yez and found where ye live—and musha, but it's a grand place, God bless it!"

Eily was looking around her now at the beautiful room, the lovely women, their smart attire, and shyness seized her; she hung her head in dismay; every one in the room was pressing forward to see the girl whom Hamilton had immortalised, and comments on her appearance passed from lip to lip.

"Stand there, Eily," said Hamilton kindly, placing her on a low stool that stood near. The game should be played out now.

The crowd pressed around eagerly, delighted and curious.

[Sidenote: A Pleasant Surprise!]

"What a pleasant surprise you have prepared for us, dear Mr. Hamilton! quite unprepared, I assure you! but ah, how you artists idealise to be sure! who but genius itself could find anything picturesque under so much glitter and vulgarity?" and so on and so on, until Eily's blushing face grew paler and paler.

"Now, Eily, you may go; the ladies and gentlemen have looked at you long enough. Here is something to buy a new gown and bonnet," and Leslie Hamilton, with a patronising smile, put some gold into her hand.

"How kind and considerate!" murmured the highborn dames as they turned away.

He escorted the girl to the door, and drew aside the portiere courteously, but his face became livid with rage as he spoke in a low, stern voice, "Go, girl! never dare to come here again—if you do, I swear I will call the police!"

He closed the door after her retreating figure, and turned with a smile to the company; his eyes sought those of beautiful Bee Vandaleur, but she had gone.

Outside in the busy street Eily stood, leaning for support against a stone pillar. She heard nothing, saw nothing. A mist swam before her eyes; she was dumb with shame and disappointment; her face, a moment before so eager, was pale as death, and deep sobs that came from her very soul shook her poor body. She clenched the gold in her hands, and then with a bitter, passionate cry threw it into the street, and watched while two street-urchins picked it up and ran off with their treasure-trove.

"May I help you, my poor girl? Are you in trouble?" Bee Vandaleur spoke gently and softly; she had heard all that passed between the artist and his model.

Eily looked up. "Oh, me lady, God bless ye! but I'm past the helping now! I loved him, I would have died to save him from a minute's sorrow, and he threatened the police on me!"

"Come with me; I will take care of you, and you shall tell me all." Miss Vandaleur hailed a passing hansom and jumped in, followed by Eily, white, shivering, and limp. "Now tell me all," she said, as they were driven at a rapid pace through the streets. Eily, won by her gentleness, told her the pitiful story of her love; told her of her simple mountain home, of the handsome stranger who had promised to return and carry her to a land where she would be fairest of the fair; told it with dry eyes and white set lips, while her heart was breaking and her temples beat, beat, beat, like sledge-hammers beneath the weight of the fringe with which she had thought to please him.

Miss Vandaleur heard all, and made no sign, save that her lips tightened now and then, and an expression of pain stole into her soft grey eyes.

It was a pathetic story, and the rich girl was touched as she listened to the poor simple one at her side. "Where do you live, Eily?" she asked, as the girl stopped speaking, and lay back with closed eyes.

"At me aunt's, your honour, but I won't go back! shure, I cannot! Oh, me lady, let me go; it's not for the likes of me to be keeping your ladyship away from her grand friends. God's blessing upon ye for your kindness to a poor girl!"

Bee was silent, wondering what she could do with the unhappy creature beside her; presently a bright thought struck her.

"I am looking out for a girl who will attend on me, Eily; do you think you would like the place if you are taught?"

[Sidenote: "An Angel from Heaven!"]

"Arrah, me lady, me lady! it's an angel from heaven ye are!" cried Eily gratefully, but her head sank back again, till the gaudy pink feather in her hat was spoilt for ever.

That night Eily was taken to hospital. Brain fever set in, and the doctors and nurses feared the worst.

* * * * *

Bee Vandaleur sat in her boudoir thinking. Her pretty brow was puckered as she gazed at the photograph of a young man, tall, fair, and handsome. For some time she cogitated, then, setting her lips together, she tore the card straight across, dropped it into the waste-paper basket beside her, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, exclaiming in a tone more forcible than polite, "Brute!"

* * * * *

Leslie Hamilton stood outside the door of Mr. Vandaleur's handsome town residence. The footman, gorgeously attired, opened the heavy door.

"Not at 'ome, sir," he answered pompously in answer to inquiries.

"My good man, you have made some mistake; I am Leslie Hamilton, and I wish to see Miss Vandaleur."

"Very sorry, sir, no mistake, sir; Miss Vandaleur is not at 'ome!" and the door closed in the face of the astonished artist.

* * * * *

It was June in Connemara. Where else is the month of roses half as lovely? where does the sky show bluer, or the grass greener? and where is the air so clear and cool and fragrant, or the lakes half as still and azure as in that blessed country?

The sun rode high in the sky, monarch of all, and men smiled as they went about their daily toil, and thanked the good God who was sending them favourable weather. Here and there, dotted about the hillsides, the tiny white-washed cabins were full of life; the cocks crowed proudly as they strutted in and out among their plump, sleek wives; the useful ass brayed loudly, roaming about field and lane in enjoyment of a leisure hour; the men were in the fields, cutting the sweet-scented grass, and the women busied themselves about the midday meal, while babies, with dirty faces and naked feet, tumbled about among the wandering pigs and quacking ducks in blissful content.

Along the white road that bordered the lake a cart was jolting slowly along; it was painted in a startling shade of blue, with shafts of brightest red that projected both back and front; upon it was arranged, with neatness and precision, a load of turf just cut from the bog; on one side, painted black, that all who run might read, was the name of "Patrick O'Malley" in crude lettering, and Patrick himself, in working dress of coarse cream homespun, walked beside his slow-going jennet, idly smoking his tin-topped pipe. From time to time he drew from his trouser pocket a letter, which he fingered with respect, gazing at it with profoundest wonder.

"Shure, 'tis the grandest and the natest letther ever seen, and the ilegant picthur on the back! Musha, musha, 'tis not the likes o' that comes to Biddy Joyce ivery day, no, nor to no one else neither in these parts! It minds me of a letther her ladyship at the castle aksed me to take to the posht, and her in a hurry; begob, but the paper's thick and good entoirely!" and he rubbed it softly between his finger and thumb. "Shure 'tis from London itself, and maybe the one as wrote it is some friend o' Eily's. Ah, but it's she is the foolish one that she did not take the boy! it's long ere she'll find another such a match again, and him with cattle and sheep and pigs o' his own, a house that many a girl would be wild for to get, and maybe—maybe—a bit laid by for a rainy day into the bargain!"

[Sidenote: "Too Good for Her!"]

The jennet jogged slowly on as Patrick soliloquised. "The poor lad, but it makes me heart ache to see him so low-like, setting so quiet in the house, and him thinking, thinking all the blessed while, and never a word out o' his mouth to complain. He's a rale good lad, and it's sorry I am that he should take on so bad, and all for the sake o' a pair o' bright eyes! To see him when Biddy Joyce was sick and Mike got laid up with rheumatics; who was it minded the cattle, and fed the pigs, and sat early and late 'tending on the pair o' thim but Dermot! It's mighty high the girl is, with her talk o' the gintry and the ilegant places she seen in London, and never a mintion o' his name in all her letthers, the foolish craythur! it's too good the bhoy is for the likes o' her!" The old man was beginning to wax indignant over his son's unfavoured suit when a voice, rich and strong, called to him across the loose stone wall that divided the road from the fields.

"Any news going down Lissough way, father?" It was Dermot, who had stopped for a moment in his task of cutting down the long grass.

"Arrah, phwat news is it likely an old man like me should bring? You ask me so eager-like that I misdoubt me but it's some colleen that's caught your eye!" Patrick's eyes twinkled merrily as he made his little joke. Dermot's face saddened, and he turned to his scythe once more.

His father, sorry that he had brought back the cloud once more to his son's face, pulled the letter from his pocket and laid it on the wall.

"Now, there's for yez! as lovely a letther as ever you seen, all the way from London, with a little picthur of an agle on the back o' it! 'Tis for Biddy Joyce, and maybe ye'll take it, Dermot, seeing your legs is younger than mine?"

Dermot was off already, climbing the mountain slopes in hot haste.

Biddy Joyce stood watching him from the door where Eily and he had parted months before.

"The poor fellow! it's like me own son he has been all this time, so kind when the sickness took hould o' Mike and me! It's meself that wishes he could forget me daughter, for it's poor comfort she will ever be to him. Faith, thin, Dermot," she exclaimed, as he came towards her, "phwat is it at all at all that ye come hurrying like this when the sun is warm enough to kill a body? Come inside, lad, and taste a sup o' me nice, sweet butther-milk; shure the churn's just done, though the butther's too soft entoirely"—she shook her head sadly.

"A letther!" cried Dermot, drawing out the treasured epistle from between the folds of his shirt, where he had hastily thrust it, that his hands might not soil the creamy paper.

"Thanks be to God!" exclaimed the woman, raising her eyes and hands for one moment to heaven. "'Tis long sence she wrote to me, the poor darlint, and it's many a time I lie awake and think o' the child all alone wid sthrangers not of her own blood. Whisht, boy, but you are worse nor meself I make no doubts"—as Dermot snatched the letter from her and hastily tore open the envelope. His face was pale with excitement and dread, for he feared, with a lover's jealous fear, that this was an announcement of Eily's marriage with some of the grand folks she had talked about.

"Rade it, Dermot; 'tis long sence I was at school, and the writin's not aisy."

Dermot obeyed, and this is the letter he spelt out slowly, with no little difficulty and several interruptions—

"Miss Vandaleur is sorry to tell Mrs. Joyce that her daughter Eily has been suffering from a severe illness; she has been in hospital for three weeks with brain fever, and until a few days ago was unable to give her mother's address. She is now much better, and the doctors hope to allow her to leave soon; she is being taken every care of by friends, but if some one could be spared to come such a long distance to see her, it would be the best thing for the poor girl, as she is always wishing for her home, and seems tired of living in London."

Biddy Joyce was weeping bitterly before the end of the letter, with her blue-checked apron held up to her eyes; three or four of the little ones had gathered around, staring with wide-open eyes.

[Sidenote: Dermot's Resolve]

Dermot kept up bravely till the last sentence, and then he could stand it no longer; he rushed out of the house, down the stony boreen. Eily sick and ill! Eily well-nigh at death's door! Eily far away in hospital with strange hands to tend her! Poor girl, his love, his darlint! she was tired of it all, wishing for home; oh, how his heart yearned for her, and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.

He wandered aimlessly about the mountain side until his emotion had well-nigh subsided, and then he plunged into the Joyces' cabin once more.

"Mrs. Joyce, it's to-morrow, early mornin', you and me musht shtart for London!"

Biddy looked up quickly. "To-morrow! the bhoy's crazy entoirely! It will be a week before I can go. Who will look after the house and the hins, and the childer, not forgetting Mike himself? I musht wait till me sister comes from Ballinahinch, and thin I will go to the child. She's betther, and near well, or the docthors wouldn't be for lettin' her out o' hospital, and faith, her aunt, me sisther Delia, will look afther her for a bit until I find it convaynient to lave; shure Mike himself will write to Eily and tell her I'm coming; that will cheer her heart up, the poor sowl."

"Maybe ye are right, Mrs. Joyce." Dermot said no more, but turned slowly away.

With a firm step and an air of decision he walked homewards across the fields.

"Mother, it's going to London I am," he said as he entered the house; "will ye see me clothes is ready, and put me up a bit o' bread? That's all I'll trouble ye for."

Honor O'Malley looked at the tall, manly figure of her only son, at the frank, proud face, the bright blue eyes, and the firmly-set mouth; the exclamation that was on her lips died away.

"God bless ye, me own bhoy!" she cried instead, in a half-smothered voice, and bent, down over the hearth to hide the tears that rose to her eyes and choked her utterance.

Dermot climbed the ladder that led to the tiny room in the roof where he slept; from beneath the mattress he drew a box, which he unlocked carefully. A small pile of sovereigns lay at the bottom; he counted them carefully, although he knew exactly the sum the little box contained; after fingering them almost lovingly for a few moments he transferred them to a small canvas bag, which he put in his pocket. "Maybe 'twill all be wanted," he exclaimed, with a happy gleam in his eye; "maybe, and maybe not, but howsoever it goes, one look at her blessed face will be worth it all!"

* * * * *

In a pretty, low-ceiled parlour, whose windows looked out upon a pleasant garden, lay Eily. The wide, old-fashioned sofa was drawn close to an open window, that she might feel the soft, cool air on her cheeks, and sniff the fragrance of the mignonette that filled the beds outside. It was a very thin face that lay upon the soft down pillow, but a slight tinge of pink on her cheeks told of returning health. Her abundant black tresses had been ruthlessly shorn away, and tiny curls clustered around forehead and neck; her eyes, dark as sloes, were large and thoughtful. Two days before she had been removed from the great London hospital, and brought by Miss Vandaleur to her father's country-home, where the kindliest of white-haired house-keepers watched over her beloved Miss Bee's protegee, tending her with gentlest care.

"Good-morning, Eily;" Miss Vandaleur, in a simple morning gown of white, entered the room.

Eily struggled to her feet. "Good-morning, miss, your honour!"

Bee laughed good-naturedly; it was funny to hear herself addressed by such a title.

"Now lie still, Eily, you are not quite strong yet. Tell me, are you happy here?"

"Happy! Arrah, it's like heaven, miss; my blessin' and the blessin' of God on ye for all your kindness to a poor girl. Shure, but for yourself I would have been in me grave this day."

[Sidenote: "Is there no one else?"]

"I am glad you are happy, Eily; but is there no one you would like to see, no one from home, I mean? Just say the word; perhaps I can manage it," she said slyly.

"Shure there's me mother—maybe me father too; but you could scarce get them here, miss—beggin' your honour's pardon," she added hastily.

"Is there no one else, Eily? no one that you think of sometimes—no one who was kind to you, and loved you dearly?" Bee was leaning over the wan face eagerly, and what she saw for answer was a deep crimson flush that covered face, neck, and brow, while tears rolled down the cheeks. Eily had been thinking of Dermot continually of late, wishing with all her heart that she had not so scorned his love; she had learnt many lessons in the quiet watches of the night and the weary hours of weakness through which she had passed.

Bee Vandaleur said no more, but patted the dark curls gently. "Don't cry, Eily, all will be right soon," and she left the room.

Eily was alone once more.

"Ah, Dermot, Dermot asthore! why was it I trated ye so!" The tears were trickling through her fingers, and her heart was aching with self-reproach.

"Eily, mavourneen!"

The tear-stained fingers were taken in two big, strong hands, and Dermot, with a depth of love in his eyes, bent over the sorrow-stricken face and laid a kiss on the quivering lips; not another word was spoken, but Dermot's protecting arms were around her, and with her head on the heart that throbbed with love and devotion all the past was blotted out, all her folly forgotten, and Eily found rest.

In a surprisingly short time Eily regained her health; happiness is the best of medicine, and Eily felt she had as much as her heart could hold. Looking at Dermot with a lover's eyes she found out all that was noble and good in him, and when he asked her to be his wife ere a week had flown by she gave a glad consent.

Unwin Brothers, Limited, The Gresham Press, Woking and London



* * * * *



Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Varied hyphenation retained between different authors' stories.

Page 4, "Sedgmoor" changed to "Sedgemoor." (in Sedgemoor days)

Page 30, "Frauelein" changed to "Fraeulein." (to be respected Fraeulein)

Page 32, same. (Fraeulein Christina Fasch)

Page 63, A character named "Robert" appears in a sidenote and one paragraph. In the next paragraph his name is changed to Max. The first two instances have been changed to Max to conform. ([Sidenote: Uncle Max]) and (it was so, Max.)

List of Illustrations and on Illustration, "MARTIN" changed to "MARTYN" to conform to text. (SELINA MARTYN GAVE)

Illustration caption, "FIRST-BORN" changed to "FIRSTBORN" to reflect text. (THEIR FIRSTBORN)

Page 176, "half mended" changed to "half-mended." (was only half-mended)

Page 240, "Kaffir" changed to "Kafir." (and a Kafir sprang out)

Page 314, "ever" changed to "over." (throw over the head)

Page 317, "unbotton" changed to "unbutton." (unbutton her gloves)

Page 323, sidenote "Good-bye" changed to "Goodbye."

The story entitled "Poor Jane's Brother" is credited to M. Ling in the table of contents and in the list of authors, but the page on which the story begins lists Marie F. Salton as the author. This discrepancy was retained.

The illustration labelled "AT THE PICNIC:" seems to go with no story in this text.

THE END