the shadow of an old ruined chapel and make
their beds among the stones and grass.

All were soon fast asleep; but at
midnight the last of the rain fell, the mists
mustered in long troops, and filed away over
the hills. The moon rose, marching grandly
up a sky such as city chimneys never see;
mountains that had been curtained out with
rain-clouds lifted their gloomy heads against the
horizon, or bowed their brawny shoulders down
to the plains to catch the silver benediction of
the hour. Streams struggling here and there
through hollows, with their swollen burden of
waters, flung up glances of delight to the sky,
as they had now light to go on their stumbling
way. A plover in his nest felt the silver touch
upon his wing, stirred among the rushes, gave
a cry of welcome, and was at rest again.

The cry awakened Molly, who was sleeping
with her head against the opening of a broken
arch, and her face to the moonlight. She had
been dreaming of a tavern row, of police, of a
jail, of hunger, brawling, curses, and jury.
She opened her eyes to the white purity of
the moon, her ears to the dreamy echo of
the plover's note, and her soul to its first
knowledge of peace. She laid the sleeping
child out of her arms upon a corner of his
mother's gown, covered him with her own old
rag of a mantle, stole out from the shadow of
the walls, and stood dazzled and bewildered in
the mellow glory of the night. The land on
which she looked, was as new to her as if she
had been led to the spot blindfold. What
strange place was this where heaven bent
towards her like a mother, where the very air
seemed full of kindness, and the earth looked
soothed, as if cruelty and wickedness had
been charmed away from it for evermore? She
had seen the moon many a time, looking with a
ghastly glance of disgust on dismal scenes to
which she, Molly, had belonged. She had
never been gazed at, all alone, by a tender eye
like this. A strain of sublime enthusiasm was
wrung from her ignorant soul. A wild regret
for being what she was, sprang out of the passiveness
of her degradation. She put her poor face
between her hands and fell to weeping.

She sat down on a stone by the roadside, and
with her head upon her arms dropped asleep.
The sun was high when a sound of whooping
and shouting—drover's cries—roused her. A
troop of kyloes were shoving along the road
towards her, a man mounted on a horse bringing
up the rear. Molly's instinct to hide from
every face as an enemy's, rose up within her, and
carried her back trembling to the ruin. But
she peeped out from the shelter of the old window,
and saw a pleasant picture framed there;
a Iong winding sunny road, sunny mountains,
the wild little troop of rugged cattle tossing
their horned heads and plunging along, and the
figure on horseback behind. As the figure
came nearer, Molly drew back into her hiding-
place, with a start of dismay. The man was
the owner of that stolen frieze coat. "Whoop,
whoop!" shouted the drover's rough voice,
and "click, click!" went his smacking whip,
but Molly heard nothing but "Thief! thief!"
The flock went past, and Molly, shaking with
terror, gathered the baby in her arms, and
buried her face in its chubby shoulder. Had
they tracked her out to this beautiful land, to
drag her back to the town and fling her into
a jail? They had passed her by, out would
they not come back and find her?

Tramp! tramp! again; but to-day over a
burning road, with a dazzling sun above their
heads. They had a grand performance before
a roadside cottage, the pipes and fiddle
clamoured which should be loudest. Miss
Matilda danced her hornpipe, Molly sang her
ballads with a wild ringing fear of the drover
in her voice, but a scrupulous perseverance,
that told of her determination to earn her living
honestly. She had a fine true voice, with a
strain of sweetness and pathos in it that startled
people, coming from so dingy a figure. The
woman of the cottage was touched by it, more than
by the dancing and singing of the Rooneys. The
baby had sobbed an accompaniment to Molly's
song, and the baby got some new goat's milk and
bread. And for the singer's sake the rest of
the hungry band had a meal of new potatoes.

"Yer come from the town?" said the motherly
woman, who had taken the baby in her arms
whilst Molly ate. "Ay! the town's a bad
place. There's a poor dhrover body gone past
a bit ago, only's been four days away, an' has
come home without his fine coat that he counted
to do him the rest o' his life. Stole from before
his eyes by a vagabond thief o' a girl, before
he'd been an hour in Dublin."

The blood ran into Molly's face for shame,
and out of it again for fear.

"No, but I didn't mean that all the towns-
folks is bad!" said the woman, kindly.

By evening they arrived at a wayside inn,
where a number of men were drinking. There
had been a fair not far off the day before,
and some were only now on their way home
from it. They were smoking and drinking
in a little earthen-floored room, and had just
been talking of the luckless drover and his
coat, he having passed there about half an hour
before. It seemed he was scattering his story
behind him, over the country as he went, like
the crumbs cast by the boy in the tale.

The Rooneys saw their chance and pushed
their way up to the door of the tavern. Molly's
black eyes, full of an agonising question, peered
in at the door of the close noisy room, and
scanned the faces present. The one she dreaded
was not there.

The tramps were welcome here with their
music and dancing. Father and mother
Rooney were king and queen of the hour,
and were treated to steaming glasses of
punch. Matilda's hornpipe was applauded to
the echo. When it came to Molly's turn, she
made two or three pitiful attempts to sing, and
failed wretchedly. She was over-tired. None
of them had such a wearisome burthen to carry
as she had had, the heavy baby clinging for ever
round her neck. The fear, too, was in her
throat yet, and she could not sing.