A year after the events in the preceding book took place O'Connell
and his young wife were living in a small; apartment in one of the
poorer sections of New York City.

The first few months in America had been glorious ones for them.
Their characters and natures unfolded to each other as some
wonderful paintings, each taking its own hues from the adoration of
the other.

In company with a noted Irish organiser O'Connell had spoken in many
of the big cities of the United States and was everywhere hailed as
a hero and a martyr to English tyranny.

But he had one ever-present handicap--a drawback he had never felt
during the years of struggle preceding his marriage. His means were
indeed small. He tried to eke out a little income writing articles
for the newspapers and magazines. But the recompense was pitiful. He
could not bear, without a pang, to see Angela in the dingy
surroundings that he could barely afford to provide for her.

On her part Angela took nothing with her but a few jewels her mother
had left her, some clothes and very little money. The money soon
disappeared and then one by one the keepsakes of her mother were
parted with. But they never lost heart. Through it all they were
happy. All the poetry of O'Connell's nature came uppermost,
leavened, as it was, by the deep faith and veneration of his wife.

This strangely assorted fervent man and gentle woman seemed to have
solved the great mystery of happiness between two people.