"Indeed, miss, I'll love to help you," she said. "'Twill be a rale
pleasure--and not many comes my way, these days."

"I'm sorry for that," Angela told her. "Perhaps you're homesick. I think
you must have come not long ago from a green island which every one
loves."

"You're right, miss." The Irish eyes brimmed over. "And I'm homesick
enough to die, but not so much fur Oireland, as fur a place I niver set
eyes on."

Angela was interested. "You're homesick for a place you never set eyes on?
Then some one you love must be there."

This time the tears could not be kept back. The young woman had begun her
work of gathering up Angela's belongings, and lest the tears should fall
on a lace nightgown she was folding, she laid it on a chair, to search
wildly for her handkerchief. "Do excuse me, if ye can, miss," she choked.
"I've no right to make a fool o' meself in front of you, but you're that
kind, I got filled up like. It's the State of Oregon I'm thinkin' of, for
the man I crossed the say to marry is there, and now I don't know when we
shall ever see one another."

"Oregon's a long way off," said Angela. "I know that, though I've lived in
Europe most of my life. Only the other day I looked at it on the map."

"Have ye got that map by you, miss?"

"Yes. We'll find it presently, in this mass of books in my cabin trunk.