her smiles that night. She danced with the
squire till it was time to go home, and then,
after she had set out for the town, escorted
him and her other beaux, Donnell's mother; kissed
me, and Donnell drew my arm through his, and
walked home with me across the snowy fields to
my stepmother's house. He was abusing Gracie
all the way, and I was, as usual, taking her
part.

He came to see me one day soon after, and
brought me a basket of lovely winter pears. He
leaned against the wall and watched me making the
butter. He was disgusted with Gracie, he said;
she was a flirt, and he did not care a pin about
her, only he would not be made a fool of. She
had refused to let him walk with her across the
hills next Sunday, to the consecration of the
new church, and if he did not get some token
that she had changed her mind between that and
this, he would never, he swore, look her way
again, but go and marry some one else for
spite.

"Oh no, Donnell," said I, "promise me you
won't do that!" For I was sure that Gracie
liked him all the while.

"But I will," said he, smiling; "at least, if
other people will have me."

"Oh, don't, don't!" said I; but he would not
promise.

"It's my mind," said my stepmother, after
he had gone, "that yon lad's more like a lover
of yours than hers. Why don't you catch him,
and then you needn't go to America."

"Mother!" I cried, and felt the room
spinning round with me, till I caught and held
on by the door.

"Well, well," she said, "you needn't look so
mad. Many a girl 'd be glad of him."

I thought a great deal about how he had sworn
that he would marry some one else if he did not
hear from Gracie before Sunday. "I'm sure
she likes him," I thought; "she cannot help it.
She must have seen how mean even Squire
Hannan looked beside him the other night.
And it would be a most dreadful thing if he was
married to some one he did not care about, and if
she went off to London, with a broken heart, to
be a 'West-end' milliner." I thought about it,
and thought about it. There was no use going
to Gracie, for she would only laugh and mock at
me. All at once a bright idea came in my head.

I was afraid to think of what I was going to
do; but that night, when my stepmother had
gone to bed, leaving me to finish spinning some
wool, I got out a sheet of paper and a little note
of Gracie's which I had in my work-box, and
began to imitate Gracie's handwriting. I had
not much trouble, for we wrote nearly alike;
and afterwards I composed a little letter.

"Dear Mr. McDonnell," it said, "I have
changed my mind, and will be very glad if you
will join me on the road to the consecration on
Sunday.
                       "Yours sincerely,
                                           "GRACE BYRNE."

"What harm can it do to send it?" thought
I, trembling all the while. I folded it up, and
put it in an envelope directed to Mr. Donnell
McDonnell, The Buckey Farm. "And it may
do such a great deal of good! In the first place,
it will prevent his marrying for spite before
Sunday, and then she will be so glad to see him
coming, in spite of her crossness, that she will
be quite kind to him. He is always so stiff and
proud when she treats him badly, that I am
sure it makes her worse. She will never find
out that he got any letter—-not, at least, till they
are quite good friends—-married, perhaps and
then they will both thank me."

So the next evening, about dusk, I slipped
quietly into the town and posted my letter. I
was dreadfully afraid of meeting Donnell or
Gracie; but I saw no one I knew. I dropped
the note in the letter-box and rushed off towards
home again at full speed. I ran nearly all the
way; the snowy roads were slippery in the
evening frost, and near our house I fell and hurt
my foot. A neighbour found me leaning against
the stile and brought me home. I was to have
sailed for America the very next week, but now
I was laid up with a sprained ankle, and my
departure was put off.

On Sunday evening, a neighbour woman who
had been at the consecration came in to tell us
the news: This one had been there of course,
and that one had been there for a wonder.
Gracie Byrne had been there in a fine new
bonnet (the girl was going to the mischief with
dress), and Squire Hannan had been there, and
given her the flower out of his button-hole.

"And Donnell McDonnell was with her, of
course?" said I.

"Ay, 'deed you may swear it," said the
woman. "That'll be a match before long. He
walked home with her to the town, and her
smilin' at him like the first of June!"

"They'll be married before I go away," said
I to myself; and I leaned back into my corner, for
the pain of my foot sickened me.

Donnell's mother brought me a custard and
some apples the next day.

"Donnell's gone to the Glens, my dear," said
she, "or he would ha' been over this mornin' to
see you. He went before we heard of your foot,
and he won't be home for a week."

"What's he doin' there?" asked my step-
mother.

"He has land there, you know," said Donell's
mother, "and he goes whiles to settle his
affairs with them that has charge of it. I don't
know rightly what he's gone about now.
Something has went again him lately, for he's not like
himself those few days back. He said somethin'
about goin' to be married when he came
home, but if he is, it's not after his heart; for
I never saw a bridegroom so glum on the head
of it. Bet, dear, I thought it was you he
liked."

"So he does, Mrs. M'Donnell," said I, "but
not that way—- not for his wife."

"Well, well, my dear!" said Donnell's
mother, wiping her eyes.

Everybody was coming to see me now, on