on, but my mother has forbidden
it, and so, even if I could be let to enter, I must not disobey her.
I have not read the papers giving an account of your trial. I only
know you are charged with killing a bad man, notorious in Dublin
life, and that many think he got his just deserts in being killed.

I saw Christopher Dogan only a week ago, before we came to Dublin.
His eyes, as he talked of you, shone like the secret hill-fires
where the peasants make illegal drink.

"Look you," he said to me, "I care not what a jury decides. I know
my man; and I also know that if the fellow Boyne died by his hand,
it was in fair fight. I have read Dyck Calhoun's story in the
stars; and I know what his end will be. It will be fair, not foul;
good, not bad; great, not low. Tell him that from me, miss," was
what he said.

I also will not believe that your fate is an evil one, that the law
will grind you between the millstones of guilt and dishonour; but if
the law should call you guilty, I still will not believe. Far away
I will think of you, and believe in you, dear, masterful, madman
friend. Yes, you are a madman, for Michael Clones told me--faith,
he loves you well!--that you've been living a gay life in Dublin
since you came here, and that the man you are accused of killing
was in great part the cause of it.

I think I never saw my mother so troubled in spirit as she is at
this time. Of course, she could not feel as I do about you. It
isn't that which makes her sad and haggard; it is that we are
leaving Ireland behind.

Yes, she and I are saying good-bye to Ireland. That's why I think
she might have let me see you before we went; but since it must not
be, well, then, it must not. But we shall meet again. In my soul
I know that on the hills somewhere far off, as on the first day we
met, we shall meet each other once more. Where are we going? Oh,
very far! We are going to my Uncle Bryan--Bryan Llyn, in Virginia.
A letter has come from him urging us to make our home with him. You
see, my friend--

Then followed the story which Bryan Llyn had told her mother and
herself, and she wrote of her mother's decision to go out to the new,
great home which her uncle had made among the cotton-fields of the
South. When she had finished that part of the tale, she went on as
follows:

We shall know your fate only through the letters that will