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,