The strange woman on approaching the door more nearly, stood again for a minute or two, having been struck more forcibly by something which gave a touching and melancholy character to this simple act of domestic worship.  She observed, for instance, that their prayers were blended with many sighs, and from time to time, a groan escaped from one of the males, which indicated either deep remorse or a sense of some great misery.  One of the female voices, too, was so feeble as scarcely to be heard, yet there ran through it, she felt, a spirit of such tender and lowly resignation, mingled with such an expression of profound sorrow, as almost moved her to tears.  The door was open, and the light so dim, that she could not distinctly see their persons—­two circumstances which for a moment induced her to try if it were possible to leave the meal there without their knowledge.  She determined otherwise, however, and as their prayers were almost immediately concluded, she entered the house.  The appearance of a stranger in the dusky gloom carrying a burden, caused them to suppose that it was some poor person coming to ask charity, or permission to stop for the night.

“Who is this?” asked Condy.  “Some poor person, I suppose, axin’ charity,” he added.  “But God’s will be done, we haven’t it to give this many a long day.  Glory be to his name!”

“This is Condy Dalton’s house?” said the strange woman in a tone of inquiry.

“Sich as it is, it’s his house, an’ the best he has, my poor creature.  I wish it was betther both for his sake and yours,” he replied, in a calm and resigned voice, for his heart had been touched and solemnized by the act of devotion which had just concluded.

Mrs. Dalton, in the meantime, had thrown a handful of straw on the fire to make a temporary light.

“Here,” said the stranger, “is a present of meal that a’ friend sent you.”

“Meal!” exclaimed Peggy Dalton, with a faint scream of joy; “did you say meal?” she asked.

“I did,” replied the other; “a friend that heard of your present distress, and thinks you don’t desarve it, sent it to you.”

Mrs. Dalton raised the burning straw, and looked for about half a minute into her face, during which the woman carried the meal over and placed it on the hearth.

“I met you to-day, I think,” said Mrs. Dalton, “along with Donnel Dhu’s wife on your way to Darby Skinadre’s?”

“You might,” replied the woman; “for I went there part o’ the road with her.”

“And who are we indebted to for the present?” she asked again.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” replied the other; “barrin’ that it’s from a friend and well-wisher.”

Mrs. Dalton clasped her hands, and looking with an appearance of abstraction, on the straw as it burned in the fire, said in a voice that became infirm by emotion—­

“Oh!  I know it; it can be no other.  The friend that she speaks of is the girl—­the blessed girl—­whose goodness is in every one’s mouth—­Gra Gal Sullivan.  I know it, I feel it.”