Julie had often said how strange it seemed to her, when people who had a ready pen for writing consulted her as to what they should write about!  She suffered so much from over-abundance of ideas which she had not the physical strength to put on paper.

Even when she was very ill, and unable to use her hands at all, the sight of a lot of good German wood-cuts, which were sent to me at Bath, suggested so many fresh ideas to her brain, that she only longed to be able to seize her pen and write tales to the pictures.

Before we turn finally away from the subject of her liking for Irish people, I must mention a little adventure which happened to her at Fulford.

There is one parish in York where a great number of Irish peasants live, and many of the women used to pass Julie’s windows daily, going out to work in the fields at Fulford.  She liked to watch them trudging by, with large baskets perched picturesquely on the tops of their heads, but in the town the “Irishers” are not viewed with equal favour by the inhabitants.  One afternoon Julie was out sketching in a field, and came across one of these poor Irish women.  My sister’s mind at the time was full of Biddy Macartney, and she could not resist the opportunity of having a chat with this suggestive “study” for the character.  She found an excuse for addressing the old woman about some cattle which seemed restless in the field, but quickly discovered, to her amusement, that when she alluded to Ireland, her companion, in the broadest brogue, stoutly denied having any connection with the country.  No doubt she thought Julie’s prejudices would be similar to those of her town neighbours, but in a short time some allusion was inadvertently made to “me father’s farm in Kerry,” and the truth leaked out.  After this they became more confidential; and when Julie admired some quaint silver rings on her companion’s finger, the old woman was most anxious to give her one, and was only restrained by coming to the decision that she would give her a recipe for “real Irish whisky” instead.  She began with “You must take some barley and put it in a poke—­” but after this Julie heard no more, for she was distracted by the cattle, who had advanced unpleasantly near; the Irish woman, however, continued her instructions to the end, waving her arms to keep the beasts off, which she so far succeeded in doing, that Julie caught the last sentence—­

“And then ye must bury it in a bog.”

“Is that to give it a peaty flavour?” asked my sister, innocently.

“Oh, no, me dear!—­it’s because of the excise-man.”

When they parted, the old woman’s original reserve entirely gave way, and she cried:  “Good luck to ye! and go to Ireland!”

Julie remained in England for some months after Major Ewing started for Malta, and as he was despatched on very short notice, and she had to pack up their goods; also—­as she was not strong—­it was decided that she should avoid going out for the hot summer weather, and wait for the healthier autumn season.  Her time, therefore, was now chiefly spent amongst civilian friends and relations, and I want this fact to be specially noticed, in connection with the next contributions that she wrote for the Magazine.