gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my way,
and made a round in spite of the landlord's directions; for by the
time I had reached Bridget's cottage she was there, with no semblance
of hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly
ajar. I knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently
awaiting the explanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so
the nose and chin were brought near together; the gray eyebrows were
straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous eyes, and the
thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide, wrinkled
forehead. For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my answer to
the solemn questioning of her silence.

"Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?"

She bowed her head in assent.

"I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to
keep you standing."

"You cannot tire me," she said, and at first she seemed inclined to
deny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment--she had
searched the very soul in me with her eyes during that instant--she
led me in, and dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak,
which had previously hid part of the character of her countenance.
The cottage was rude and bare enough. But before the picture of the
Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled
with fresh primroses. While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I
understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green
in the sheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be
seated. The expression of her face, which all this time I was