feet of the woman are sundry articles, amongst which a bundle of rags, an iron pot, and a tin saucepan, are the most conspicuous. The man to whom she is talking is a tall, gaunt specimen of Irish poverty and famine. He holds a rake and pitchfork in his hand, and leans upon them for support. Gazing into his face is a rough, surly-looking youth, who seems cordially to agree with all that he says.

Leaning against the wall that flanks the gate on the side opposite that which supports the girl, are another man and woman, who cast from time to time pitying glances at the pale face beneath the straw bonnet. These are as raggedly picturesque in their attire as the rest—a short red petticoat, a blanket substituted for a shawl, and a bundle on the back, distinguish the female; a long great coat and short trousers the male. They are deep in conversation upon the common theme. A young man of more stalwart figure stands beside the girl, and failing to attract her attention, kneels down on one knee and speaks low to her. A little boy is seated at her feet, alternately stroking her hands, and stirring up a small puddle of water with a short stick. Two other children are engaged at a little distance in making a lean cur beg for a mouthful of bread, which the generous urchins would evidently rather share with the dog than eat alone.

The one prevailing feature of the party is rags, and how they hold together no tongue can tell.

At last there is a general movement, as well as general clamour of voices and much gesticulation. All, old and young, with the exception of the girl, gather round the woman in the red cloak, and seem to be urging her to do something that she does not like to do. They point to the girl, and the appeal is not in vain.

The woman moves slowly and somewhat sulkily towards one of the boys, takes him by the hand, and returning to the gate, opens it, and walks down the good broad road that leads to the farm, the boy trotting by her side. We watch the bright red cloak till it disappears amongst the trees that surround the house; and turn again to wonder what can be the matter with the girl. She neither moves nor speaks, although her kindly companions in turn endeavour to attract her attention.

In the course of a few minutes the red cloak is again seen coming up the road, closely followed by another figure. We soon hear sounds of earnest pleading, in a broad Irish brogue, from our friend of the red cloak. As they approach the gate sound distinctly the words,—

'It's all thrue, my leddy—as thrue as the blessed gospel. I'm afeered she's dyin' if yer honour's glory won't lend us a hand.'

'I don't know how to believe you, my good woman, for some of you come every week and deceive me with all kinds of stories.'

'An' she's Welsh, yer honour. She's come to find out her friends, my leddy! God bless ye, ye've a kind eye and a gintle voice,'

Red cloak spoke the truth. The woman who is now added to the group has truly 'a kind eye and a gintle voice.' She is short and small of form, of middle age and matronly appearance; neatly and even handsomely dressed, as becomes the mistress of one of the largest and wealthiest farms of a country where large farms are rare. She has a handsome, placid face, and looks as if the world had moved on quietly and happily ever since she had been on its surface. Her dark eyes, that must once have been bright and piercing, are softened down to gentleness by the quieting hand of time; and the black hair is slightly streaked with white by the same unsparing fingers. But for this, age would seem to have little to do with the comely dame who is now bending her neatly-attired head before the shabby-looking girl against the wall,

'What is the matter with you, my poor girl?' says the 'gintle voice,'

These kind words have a power that the equally kind ones of the rough friends around had not. The brown straw bonnet is raised from the breast, and we perceive that the girl is neither dead nor sleeping. We perceive something more—a pair of the most painfully melancholy, and beautiful violet eyes that we ever looked into, which are languidly uplifted to the farm-lady. With the words, 'I am very tired, ma'am,' the eyes reclose, and we see long black fringes of soft hair rest upon the pale, thin cheek. The ready tear of compassion springs to the matron's eyes, as she stoops still lower to feel the pulse in the wan hand.

'What is the matter with her?' she inquires, turning to the bystanders.

'Tis tiert all out she is, my leddy. We come by say from Watherford to Milford, and thin, yer honour, we come on foot all trough Pembrokeshire, and County Carmarthin, and now she's jist kilt.'

'But what is she going to do? Why do you come away from Ireland at all?'

'Och, my leddy, shure we're starvin' there. And we jist come to luk for the work in the harvest, an' we're goin' to Herefordshire to git it. An' plaase yer honour's glory, she come wid us to this counthry to luk for her mother's relations that's Welsh, my leddy, small blame to thim, seein' her mother married an Irishman, and come to live in our counthry.'

'I will give you a night's lodging, and that is all I can do for you,' says the gentle mistress of the farm.

'The Lord bless ye, my leddy, the holy angels keep ye, the blessed Vargin and all the saints—'

'Oh, hush! hush!' exclaims the good woman, highly shocked. 'Help the poor girl, and come with me.'

The woman went towards the girl, and trying to assist her to rise, said,—

'Now, Gladys, asthore! An' shure, my leddy, she's a thrue Welsh name. I'll help ye, my darlin', there! Och! an it's betther she is already, as soon as she heerd of a night's lodgin'.'

The young man who was kneeling by the girl just now, goes to her other side, and succeeds in supporting her by putting his arm round her waist, whilst the woman holds her by one arm; and thus they follow the good mistress of the farm, followed in their turn by the rest of the party.

They move slowly down the road, underneath the fine oak and ash trees that shelter the back of the farm, until they reach a large farm-yard, wherein some thirty fine cows, of Welsh, English, and Alderney breed, are yielding their rich milk at the hands of some three or four rough-looking men and women who are kneeling down to get it.

'Come here, Tom,' cries the mistress, authoritatively.

Tom gives a knowing wink to the nearest girl, mutters, 'Irish again,' and goes to his mistress.

'See if there is good clean straw spread in the barn, Tom, and make haste.'

Tom goes to a large building outside the farm-yard, whither his mistress and the rest follow him.

'Plenty of straw, ma'am, good enough for such folk,' says Tom.

'Spread some more, and shut the window in the loft.'

This is done in a slow grumbling way.

The barn is a large, clean, airy building, that must look like a palace to these ragged, way-worn people.

'Now you may sleep here to-night, provided you go off early and quietly to-morrow morning. There is a good pump down below, where you can get water to wash yourselves, and at eight o'clock I shall lock the barn door; my husband always insists upon that.' Thus speaks the mistress.

'Heaven bless his honour, we're all honest. We wouldn't harm a hair of your blessed heads. We heerd o' ye many a time, and o' the good lodgin' and supper—the sun shine upon ye—ye give to the poor Irish on their thravels.' Thus answers the Irishwoman.

'You tell one another then! And this is why we have more calls than any one else!'

'The Lord love ye, and why wouldn't we? 'Tis the good as always gets the blessin'.'

Whilst this little conversation is going on, the girl, Gladys, is laid upon the shawl-blanket of the woman who wears that singular attire, and a pillow, half rags, half straw, is contrived for her head. The bonnet is taken off to increase her comfort, and, as her head falls languidly back upon the rough pillow, a wan, thin face is disclosed, that, from the regular