woman adorns herself with all her jewels when she wishes to startle

or enthrall, wishes to make a lover of a friend, so Devorgilla
arrayed herself to conquer these two pairs of fresh eyes, and

command their instant allegiance.
It was a tender, silvery day, fair, mild, pensive, with light

shadows and a capricious sun. There had been a storm of rain the
night before, and it was as if Nature had repented of her wildness,

and sought forgiveness by all sorts of winsome arts, insinuating
invitations, soft caresses, and melting coquetries of demeanour.

Broona and Jackeen had lunched with us at the Old Hall, and,
inebriated by broiled chicken, green peas, and a half holiday,

flitted like fireflies through Aunt David's garden, showing all its
treasures to the two new friends, already in high favour.

Benella, it is unnecessary to say, had confided her entire past life
to Himself after a few hours' acquaintance, while both he and

Ronald, concealing in the most craven manner their original
objections to the part she proposed to play in our triangular

alliance, thanked her, with tears in their eyes, for her devotion to
their sovereign ladies.

We had tea in the Italian garden at Rosnaree, and Dr. Gerald, arm in
arm with Himself, walked between its formal flower borders, along

its paths of golden gravel, and among its spirelike cypresses and
fountains, where balustrades and statues, yellowed and stained with

age (stains which Benella longs to scrub away), make the brilliant
turf even greener by contrast.

Tea was to have been followed in due course by dinner, but we all
agreed that nothing should induce us to go indoors on such a

beautiful evening; so baskets were packed, and we went in rowboats
to a picnic supper on Illanroe, a wee island in Lough Beg.

I can close my eyes to-day and see the picture--the lonely little
lake, as blue in the sunshine as the sky above it, but in the

twilight first brown and cool, then flushed with the sunset. The
distant hills, the rocks, the heather, wore tints I never saw them

wear before. The singing wavelets 'spilled their crowns of white
upon the beach' across the lake, and the wild-flowers in the clear

shallows near us grew so close to the brink that they threw their
delicate reflections in the water, looking up at us again framed in

red-brown grasses.
By and by the moon rose out of the pearl-greys and ambers in the

east, bevies of black rooks flew homeward, and stillness settled
over the face of the brown lake. Darkness shut us out from

Devorgilla; and though we could still see the glimmer of the village
lights, it seemed as if we were in a little world of our own.

It was useless for Salemina to deny herself to the children, for was
she not going to leave them on the morrow? She sat under the shadow

of a thorn bush, and the two mites, tired with play, cuddled
themselves by her side, unreproved. She looked tenderly, delectably

feminine. The moon shone full upon her face; but there are no ugly
lines to hide, for there are no parched and arid places in her

nature. Dews of sympathy, sweet spring floods of love and
compassion, have kept all fresh, serene, and young.

We had been gay, but silence fell upon us as it had fallen upon the
lake. There would be only a day or two in Dublin, whither Dr.

Gerald was going with us, that he might have the last word and hand-
clasp before we sailed away from Irish shores; and so near was the

parting that we were all, in our hearts, bidding farewell to the
Emerald Isle.

Good-bye, Silk of the Kine! I was saying to myself, calling the
friendly spot by one of the endearing names given her by her lovers

in the sad old days. Good-bye, Little Black Rose, growing on the
stern Atlantic shore! Good-bye, Rose of the World, with your jewels

of emerald and amethyst, the green of your fields and the misty
purple of your hills! Good-bye, Shan Van Vocht, Poor Little Old

Woman! We are going back, Himself and I, to the Oilean Ur, as you
used to call our new island--going back to the hurly-burly of

affairs, to prosperity and opportunity; but we shall not forget the
lovely Lady of Sorrows looking out to the west with the pain of a

thousand years in her ever youthful eyes. Good-bye, my Dark
Rosaleen, good-bye!

Chapter XXXII. 'As the sunflower turns.'
'No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turned when he rose.'
Thomas Moore.

Here we all are at O'Carolan's Hotel in Dublin--all but the
Colquhouns, who bade us adieu at the station, and the dear children,

whose tears are probably dried by now, although they flowed freely
enough at parting. Broona flung her arms tempestuously around

Salemina's neck, exclaiming between her sobs, "Good-bye, my
thousand, thousand blessings!"--an expression so Irish that we

laughed and cried in one breath at the sound of it.
Here we are in the midst of life once more, though to be sure it is

Irish life, which moves less dizzily than our own. We ourselves
feel thoroughly at home, nor are we wholly forgotten by the public;

for on beckoning to a driver on the cab-stand to approach with his
side-car, he responded with alacrity, calling to his neighbour,

"Here's me sixpenny darlin' again!" and I recognised him immediately
as a man who had once remonstrated with me eloquently on the subject

of a fee, making such a fire of Hibernian jokes over my sixpence
that I heartily wished it had been a half-sovereign.

Cables and telegrams are arriving every hour, and a rich American
lady writes to Salemina, asking her if she can purchase the Book of

Kells for her, as she wishes to give it to a favourite nephew who is
a bibliomaniac. I am begging the shocked Miss Peabody to explain

that the volume in question is not for sale, and to ask at the same
time if her correspondent wishes to purchase the Lakes of Killarney

or the Giant's Causeway in its stead. Francesca, in a whirl of
excitement, is buying cobweb linens, harp brooches, creamy poplins

with golden shamrocks woven into their lustrous surfaces; and as for
laces, we spend hours in the shops, when our respective squires wish

us to show them the sights of Dublin.
Benella is in her element, nursing Salemina, who sprained her ankle

just as we were leaving Devorgilla. At the last moment our side-
cars were so crowded with passengers and packages that she accepted

a seat in Dr. Gerald's carriage, and drove to the station with him.
She had a few last farewells to say in the village, and a few modest

remembrances to leave with some of the poor old women; and I
afterward learned that the drive was not without its embarrassments.

The butcher's wife said fervently, "May you long be spared to each
other!" The old weaver exclaimed, "'Twould be an ojus pity to spoil

two houses wid ye!" While the woman who sells apples at the station
capped all by wishing the couple "a long life and a happy death

together." No wonder poor Salemina slipped and twisted her ankle as
she alighted from the carriage! Though walking without help is

still an impossibility, twenty-four hours of rubbing and bathing and
bandaging have made it possible for her to limp discreetly, and we

all went to St. Patrick's Cathedral together this morning.
We had been in the quiet churchyard, where a soft, misty rain was

falling on the yellow acacias and the pink hawthorns. We had stood
under the willow-tree in the deanery garden--the tree that marks the

site of the house from which Dean Swift watched the movements of the
torches in the cathedral at the midnight burial of Stella. They are

lying side by side at the foot of a column in the south side of the
nave, and a brass plate in the pavement announces:-

'Here lies Mrs. Hester Johnson, better known to the world by the
name of Stella, under which she is celebrated in the writings of Dr.

Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral.'
Poor Stella, at rest for a century and a half beside the man who

caused her such pangs of love and grief--who does not mourn her?
The nave of the cathedral was dim, and empty of all sightseers save

our own group. There was a caretaker who went about in sloppy
rubber shoes, scrubbing marbles and polishing brasses, and behind a