“Isn’t there a family named Sullivan that lives not far from Skinadre’s?”

“There is; Jerry Sullivan, it’s his daughter that’s the beauty—­Gra Gal Sullivan.  Little she knows what’s preparin’ for her!”

“How am I to go to Skinadre’s from this?” asked the woman.

“Up by that road there; any one will tell you as you go along.”

“Thank you, dear,” replied the woman, tenderly; “God bless you; you are a wild girl, sure enough; but above all things, afore I go, don’t forget the box for—­for—­och, for—­Charley Hanlon.  God bless you, a colleen machree, an’ make you what you ought to be!”

Sarah, during many a long day, had not heard herself addressed in an accent of kindness or affection; for it would be wrong to bestow upon the rude attachment which her father entertained for her, or his surly mode of expressing it, any term that could indicate tenderness, even in a remote degree.  She looked, therefore, at the woman earnestly, and as she did, her whole manner changed to one of melancholy and kindness.  A soft and benign expression came like the dawn of breaking day over her features, her voice fell into natural melody and sweetness, and, approaching her companion, she took her hand and exclaimed—­

“May God bless you for them words! it’s many a day since I heard the voice o’ kindness.  I’ll get the box, if it’s to be had, if it was only for your own sake.”

She then passed on to her neighbor’s house, and the next appearance of her companion was that in which the reader caught, a glimpse of her in the house of Darby Skinadre, from which she followed Nelly M’Gowan and Mave Sullivan with an appearance of such interest.

CHAPTER IX. —­ Meeting of Strangers—­Mysterious Dialogue.

Gra Gal Sullivan and the prophet’s wife, having left the meal-shop, proceeded in the direction of Aughamurran, evidently in close, and if one could judge by their gestures, deeply important conversation.  The strange woman followed them at a distance, meditating, as might be perceived by her hesitating manner, upon the most seasonable moment of addressing either one or both, without seeming to interrupt or disturb their dialogue.  Although the actual purport of the topic they discussed could not be known by a spectator, yet even to an ordinary observer, it was clear that the elder female uttered something that was calculated to warn or alarm the younger.

She raised her extended forefinger, looked earnestly into the face of her companion, then upwards solemnly, and, clasping her hands with vehemence, appeared to close her assertion by appealing to heaven in behalf of its truth; the younger looked at her with wonder, seemed amazed, paused suddenly on her step, raised her hands, and looked as if about to express terror; but, checking herself, appeared as it were perplexed by uncertainty and doubt.  After this the elder