questions. An' now we're comin'to the village. Here's
my path, an' there's the road to the East Ind.
Ye'd betther let me go home my lone."

"Go your lone, then!" said Mike, fierily,
"an' I'll go mine. I'll be betther aff than
you, anyways, that hasn't as much as the sore
heart for company. Sorra bit! but such a
thing was left out clane the day ye were made.
Maureen!" he added, eagerly, as she turned
away, his angry voice falling to a coaxing
whisper, " there's to be a Hallow's Eve dance
at Biddy Prendergast's to-night. Hurry the
childher to bed, an' give yer mother her beads
to count at the fire, an' come. Will you?"

Maureen had stopped short. " No, I won't,"
she said, in a low voice.

"Feth ye will now, avourneen!"

"Feth I won't!" persisted the girl,
doggedly, with her eyes on the ground.

"An' ye plase, then," cried Mike, with
another burst of passion. " There'll be plenty
of likely girls at Biddy's— Peggy Moran for
wan, the best dancer in the island. Bad scran
to the bit of my ould brogues that I won't
dance aff my feet to The Little House undher
the Hill with her. No, but. ye'll come,
Maureen. I'll take my oath that I'll see you comin'
walkin' in like a May mornin' afore I'm up on
the floor a crack with Peggy."

Maureen gave her bundle one final jerk, and
Mike one final glance, as she turned away.

"An' if you do," she said, " I'll give ye
lave in full to take as lies every word I've said
to-night, an' every could word that iver I said
since you begun to spake to me this ways. A
pleasant dance to you, then, with Peggy Moran.
Good evenin'!"

She turned off abruptly, and struck out on
her homeward path. Mike gave one passionate
look after her, and then marched away in the
other direction, whistling The Little House
under the Hill with all his might.

The defiant echoes shrilled about Maureen's
ears as she hastened on. She was near her
home now. The rough shingle of the North
Beach opened grey and wide before her. Here
and there a tall crag stood up like a ghoul and
wrapped the shadows about it. Inland, falls
and hills had changed from brown to black. A
purple darkness had settled over the track she
had travelled. The sound of the tossing surf
became more loudly audible at every step, and
the " village," an irregular mustering of cabins,
sent forth a grateful savour of turf smoke upon
the raw lonely air. Lights twinkled here and
there from windows, and the red glow of the fire
shone under every open doorway. Before passing
the first of these doors, Maureen stopped
and wiped a hot tear or two from her cheek with
her apron. Then she hurried on, lightening her
step as she trod the rough causeway of the
"village," threading her way amongst her
neighbours' houses, and hearing from many an ingle
as she passed the ruddy thresholds, "There's
Maureen Lacey gettin' home, poor girl!"

At one of the furthest cabins facing the sea
Maureen stopped, and stepped over the doorstep
into the firelit shelter. Her eyes, accustomed
to the red smoky atmosphere, saw her
stepmother sitting at the hearth-stone with a
child upon her knee, and some four or five other
little ones grouped about the embers at their
play. These Maureen had expected to see, but
her eyes went straight from them to two other
figures, less familiar. Two visitors, a man and
a woman, were seated properly on chairs,
visitor-like, at a respectful distance from the fire. On
these, for the sin of their presence, Maureen's
glance passed severe judgment.

"Save ye, Con Lavelle!" she said, slowly, as
she closed the door behind her. "Save ye, Nan!"

And then, without heeding their response,
she went to the furthest corner of the cabin,
and threw her bundle of heather from her back
upon a heap of turf. Straightening her bent
figure with a sigh of relief, she untied the blue
kerchief from her head, and knotted it loosely
round her neck. She passed her hand over her
hair, damp with the dew, and smoothed back a
straggling lock or two. Then, with her arms
full of turf, she came silently over to the hearth,
and began to " make down" a good roaring fire
to boil the potatoes for the supper. The visitors
drew back to give her more room, and the
stepmother whispered, as she bent forward to the
blaze,

"Who was walkin' on the bog with you,
Maureen?"

A flash leaped out of the girl's eyes. She
went on with her task in silence for about a
minute, and then she said, in a steady voice,
loud enough for the others to hear:

"If ye hard there was any wan, mother, ye
hard who it was, and so I needn't tell you what
you knowed afore."

"What was he sayin' to you, asthore?"

"It's no matther to anybody what he was
sayin'. He's plottin' no murther, that his words
should be kep' an' counted."

"An' what did you say to him, avourneen?"

"Nothin' that went again my promise to you,
mother. An' now that you've sifted and sarched
me afore strangers, we'll talk about somethin'
else, an' ye plase!"

So saying, Maureen rose to her feet with a
brusqueness of manner that cut the dialogue
short. The visitors, uneasily silent while it had
lasted, now shuffled in their seats with relief.
Con cleared his throat, and Nan clattered her
chair closer to the hearth. Maureen drew a
stool from the corner and sat down, leaning her
back wearily against the ingle wall. Nan
Lavelle, a good-humoured looking, rugged-faced
young woman, in a bran-new green Coburg gown,
was the first to speak.

"We come, Con an' me," said Nan, " to
see if you'd go with us to the dance at Biddy
Prendergast's. There's to be two pipers, no
less, wan Tady Kelly, from Mayo side, forbye
our own Paudeen; an' the two's to be at it
hard an' fast for which has the best music.
They say that this Tady has great waltzes an'
gran' fashions, but Paudeen's the best warrant
for the jig-tunes afther. An' there's to be tay