of his field to work in, and come and speak to
her like that for a minute or two every day,
she would reach the very summit, of earthly
happiness. By daylight she was up again walking
about, having left the child wrapped in
the straw by its mother's side. She wandered
about in the crimson dawn, meeting in her own
wild untutored way wonderful revelations of a
new life, drinking in with the pure air exhilarating
draughts of refreshed vitality which
brought rushes of health into her languid veins.

She went down to a lonely river among the
hills and bathed. She wrung out her long
matted hair; she had not even a comb to comb
it with. She washed the blood-stains from the
white kerchief Haverty had given her, and
folded it across her shoulders. Then she cried
more passionately than she had ever cried for
pain or hunger, because she could not cast
away her dim ragged gown, having no other.
She bethought her of the motherly woman
whom they had left two miles behind them on
the road, who had taken the tramps into her
tidy cottage, and held the baby while Molly ate
of her bounty. So curiously had trust in
humanity been roused in the girl, that she set off
at once, running along the high road to throw
herself on the mercy of this person almost
unknown, believing that she would help her in her
dilemma. The motherly woman was feeding
her hens before her door, when Molly appeared
to her coming along in the sunrise, with her
half-dried hair hanging over her shoulders, her
eves lighted with an eager hope, and her face
clear and bright with the new flush of health
and vigour that possessed her.

"I don't know but I may be a fool," said
the motherly woman, as she sorted through the
garments in her household chest; "but I took
a likin' to ye at the first when I seen ye so
down an' unheartsome among them screechin',
jumpin', bould-faced crew. An' I like ye
betther this mornin', for ye've got more o' the
clane counthry look about ye, an' a purty
face o' yer own ye have. God be with you,
then, and take the loand o' this turkey red;
your nappikeen'll cover the misfit o' the body.
An' if ye don't turn out honest, it's God 'll
settle accounts with you, an' not me."

The "turkey red" was an ample calico gown
of that warm hue, and when Molly was arrayed
in it, and the white kerchief on her shoulders,
the motherly woman was so delighted with her
appearance that she insisted on dressing her hair
to make her complete.

"I can plat beautiful," said she, "an' I'll
plat it up to the crown of yer head, the way I
used to do my own little girl's, before the Lord
took her from me, Heaven be her bed! But let
that stan' till we get the cup o' tea. My good
man's from home, an' there's nobody here but
our two sels."

Thus treated, Molly's heart overflowed with
delight. While breakfast was preparing, she
sought for a smooth pool outside, and surveyed
the alteration in herself, coming back on tiptoe.
The words, "an' a purty face o' yer own
ye have!" were racing through her head; but
the idea they conveyed was too sudden and
wildly original to be accepted at once as the
truth. And yet, when the rest of the world
was changing so fast, why should not she
change too? When her head was covered with
shining braids she was still more a wonder to
herself. Where had this beauty come from?
Could mere soap and water, coloured calico,
and the motherly woman's nimble fingers, work
such a miracle?

She stayed all day at the tidy cottage, being
afraid to go back to the Rooneys. After
sundown she set out, asking her way to the Widow
Conneely's. It was a long walk, and she
arrived with her cheeks in a glow. John
Haverty was smoking his pipe as she came up,
and he did not know her.

"I've come," said she.

"Why," said he, "you're never the singin'
girl that was with the thramps last night?"

"I am," said Molly, enchanted, but alarmed
at his not knowing her. "You promised to
tell me what to sing."

He beamed on her with his blue eyes, taking
in her new appearance slowly, by a long look.

"I'll tell ye," said he, putting his pipe in his
pocket.

He took her in to the Widow Conneely.
He placed her in a seat apart, a little brown
stool, set up in a deep window-seat, with a
strip of dark-green curtain by her shoulder, and
the remains of the sunset barring the little
window-pane with gold beyond her. It was by
accident, of course, that these things arranged
themselves so as to make of her a pretty
picture for the unconscious pleasing of uncultivated
eyes. But there she sat, entitled to
respect by the deference that Haverty paid her.

The people had not gathered in for the dance;
only a few old men and women were there; the
piper had not yet come. Haverty sat with one
leg across the end of a table, talking to Molly,
getting her to sing over verses of songs for him,
and deciding which she was to sing for the
company. Molly's eyes and cheeks grew brighter
and brighter, and her voice richer and sweeter;
as the dusk deepened, the golden bars paled
away behind the pane, and the red light from
the turf fire drove the shadows into the corners
of the cabin, and fell full across John Haverty's
eyes, which were watering as only an Irishman's
eyes can water at music.

"Yer made o' the right thrue stuff," said he,
"or yer singin' tells lies on ye. A man might
be happy that had you chirpin' like a cricket by
his fireside, avourneen! Look at me, asthareen,
an' thry could ye like me. It's not long since
we saw each other first, but I'm not a bad fellow
if you can take the soft side o' me, an' I never
seen a girl that could take the heart out o' my
body before."

Enter the piper, followed by a troop of noisy
young men and women.

If Molly's answer had been forthcoming it
would have been lost in the storm of greetings
that followed. As it was, she sat
silent and red-cheeked, and Haverty was
dragged away by a band of companions. Now