ith Hyacinth much as most men would if they discovered an unsuspected case of small-pox among their acquaintances. His first duty was to warn the society in which

story to tell grew upon him, and he spent the greater part of the day

tudents of Trinity College being then, as ever, the 'death or glory' boys of Irish loyalty. It is easy to imagine how Hyacinth's name was whispered shudderingly in the reading-room of the library,

, had set to a noble tune. It embodied an appeal for funds for purposes not clearly specified, and hazarded the experiment of rhyming 'cook's son' with 'Duke's son,' which in less fervent times might have provoked the criticism of the captious. It became the fashion in college to chant this martial ode whenever Hyacinth was seen approaching. It was thundered out by a choir who marched in step

e senior Fellows. It is the nature of the students of Trinity College to shout while they wait for the development of interesting events, and on this occasion even the library walls were insufficient to exclude the noise. The excellent nobleman inside found himself obliged to cast round for original remarks about the manuscript of the 'Book of Kells,' while the air was heavy with the verses which commemorate the departure of 'fifty thousand fighting men' to Table Bay. When at length he emerged on the library steps the tune changed, as was right and proper, to 'God save the Queen.' Strangely enough, Hyacinth had never before heard the national anthem

who entertained doubts about the justice of the original quarrel became more than ever unbearable. Hyacinth took to wandering by himself through parts of the city in which he was unlikely to meet any of his fellow-students. His soul grew bitter within him. The course of petty persecution to which he was

me was posted over the door in Gaelic characters. It was one of those shops to be found in the back streets of most large towns which devote themselves to a composite business, displaying newspapers, apples, tobacco, and sweets for sale. The afternoon light, already growing feeble in the open air, had almost deserted the interior of the shop. At first Hyacinth saw nothing but an untidy red-haired girl reading in a corner by the Ught of a candle. Ho asked her for cigarettes. She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter. It was one of O'Growney's Irish primers, dirty and pencilled. Hyacinth's heart warmed to her at once. Was she not trying t

of God upon Ir

f the stranger. The sound of the Gaelic was enoug

him with a sudden glow. He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice would break if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out a long Gaelic g

here and lonely? Where is your

anger indeed and lone

f us friends with each other. You speak our own d

th, with a view of giving expression to any thought than for the sake of airing some phrases which he had somewhat inadequately learned. Indeed, it

s your name?-to speak the Beurla. I'm clean beaten with the Gaelic, an

uire. 'After all, what am I but a learner? And it's clear t

d and nodded.

y to coming round with me to see Mary O'Dwyer? It'

on't know her. I can hardl

ing anyone I like to see her. She likes to know anyone who loves Irelan

et

We call her Finola because she shelters the rest of us under he

the tale of Lir's daughter as other children do

verses. Surely

shook h

r worked the publishing of it in New York. He is mixed up with literary people there. You must have heard of him at all events. He's Patrick O'Dwyer,

y to her friends how Miss O'Dwyer managed to live there. A solicitor who had his offices on the ground-floor probably paid the rent of the whole house; but the profits of verse-making are small, and a poetess, like meaner women, requires food, clothes, and fire. Indeed, Miss O'Dwyer, no longer 'M. O'D.,' whose verses adorned the Croppy, but 'Miranda,' served an English paper as Irish correspondent. It was a pity that a pen certainly capable of better things should have been employed in describing the newest costume of the Lord Lieutenant's wife at Punchestown, or the confection of pale-blue tulle which, draped round Mrs. Chesney, adorned a

id his hand on Hyacinth's arm, and the two stood still looking into the room. What was left of the feeble autumn twilight was almost excluded by half-drawn curtains. No lamp was lit, and the fire cast only fitful rays here and there through the room. It was with difficulty tha

West, where the he

ist

ps to gather the e

rac

lies saturate, sod

ml

unset where rages a

mingled with rain o

ed, is still beati

as it beat in the sq

usly, gladly, ex

e notes of the drum

hti

! not as it beat in t

his race's most

s, or, last on thei

feebly. O desolat

se of thy life, wh

nau

eadows and boglands

ti

e too beautiful to speak about, so sacred that praise was a kind of sacrilege. Perhaps some excuse may be found for his emotion in the fact that for weeks he had heard no poetry except the ode about 'wiping something off a slate.' The violence of th

'I didn't see you and Mr. Maguire come in until I had commenced my poor li

s beautiful. Is it really y

incerity of his tone embarrassed her

friends here are far too kind to me.

e before. Mr. Maguire secured for himself the last remaining morsel of cake, leaving Hyacinth the choice between a gingerbread biscuit an

the West we

to go and spend a whole long summer

ke that? I mean, how did you cat

rses after I had been looking at one of Jim Tynan's pictures. You know them, of course? N

home,' sai

me to know them, but the memories which Miss O'Dwyer's verses called up in him made him absent and preoccupi

next Wednesday-every Wednesday, if you like. We can have a talk about the West. I shall want you to tell me all sorts of things. Perhaps Finol

said Hyacinth. 'Mr. Magu

ificent. All the rest of us are only little children