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