ne knows another's suffering.' He walked from his window
sighing, and a moment after stopped in front of his writing-table.
Perhaps it was the writing-table that put the thought into his mind that
she might like to read a description of an Irish autumn.

_From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn._

'GARRANARD, BOHOLA,

'_September_.

'You know the wind is hardly ever at rest about the hilltop on which my
house stands. Even in summer the wind sighs, a long, gentle little sigh,
sometimes not unpleasant to hear. You used to speak of an AEolian harp,
and say that I should place one on my window-sill. A doleful instrument
it must be--loud wailing sound in winter-time, and in the summer a
little sigh. But in these autumn days an AEolian harp would be mute.
There is not wind enough to-day on the hillside to cause the faintest
vibration. Yesterday I went for a long walk in the woods, and I can find
no words that would convey an idea of the stillness. It is easy to speak
of a tomb, but it was more than that. The dead are dead, and
somnambulism is more mysterious than death. The season seemed to stand
on the edge of a precipice, will-less, like a sleep-walker. Now and
then the sound of a falling leaf caught my ear, and I shall always
remember how a crow, flying high overhead towards the mountains, uttered
an ominous "caw"; another crow answered, and there was silence again.
The branches dropped, and the leaves hung out at the end of long stems.
One could not help pitying the trees, though one knew one's pity was
vain.

'As I wandered in Derrinrush, I came suddenly upon some blood-red
beech-trees, and the hollow was full of blood-red leaves. You have been
to Derrinrush: you know how mystic and melancholy the wood is, full of
hazels and Druid stones. After wandering a long while I turned into a
path. It led me to a rough western shore, and in front of me stood a
great Scotch fir. The trunk has divided, and the two crowns showed
against the leaden sky. It has two birch-trees on either side, and their
graceful stems and faint foliage, pale like gold, made me think of
dancers with sequins in their hair and sleeves. There seemed to be
nothing but silence in the wood, silence, and leaves ready to fall. I
had not spoken to anyone for a fortnight--I mean I had no conversation
with anyone--and my loneliness helped me to perceive the loneliness of
the wood, and the absence of birds made me feel it. The lake is never
without gull