g cap, which she said was bein'
fluttered to destruction off her ould head, and Hugh McInerney's
many-rifted caubeen, for he declared that until the flurry of the blast
went down a bit you might as well be lettin' on to thatch the sails
whirlin' of a win'mill. And the rest of the company following suit might
be described in terms of their attire as for the most part sad-coloured
and dilapidated. It was just such a gathering as may be sitting to sun
themselves at Lisconnel this day--if it happens to be a fine summer
one--but with a touch of brilliance, both for eye and ear, added by the
young soldier's presence. They had, however, but fitful gleams to bask
in, for the sky was all feathered over with little silver-white plumes,
which the wind kept ruffling by so fast that the light flickered in and
out continually, as if it had come through a canopy of large slowly
waving leaves. Still, they gossiped beneath it with much satisfaction,
and catechised Denis about his adventures, and told him all the news of
the countryside; and there seemed to be no particular reason why they
should not go on doing so indefinitely. What in the end broke up the
assembly was a slight mishap that befell Theresa Joyce.

It cannot be denied that Theresa was rather vain about her long black
hair, which she had only of late begun to put up in thick silken coils.
Her mother said you had to take your two hands to a one of them, like as
if you were twisting a big _suggawn_ (hay-rope); and they looked almost
too heavy for her small head, no matter how closely they were wound
about it. A rippling wave, moreover, ran through these tresses, which
were exceedingly soft and fine; so her vanity was perhaps excusable. At
any rate, it led her to fashion herself a small knot of cherry-coloured
ribbon made of a bit that had trimmed the sleeve of her mother's purple
merino gown. It was a _very_ small knot, because most of the bit had got
mildewed lying up, before Theresa grew to concern herself about such
things. But it looked as bright in her hair as a ruddy berry on a dark
foliaged creeper, and she wore it with a pleasure, which was destined to
be brief. For as she sat knitting with the quietly creeping fingers of
an expert in that art, a vagrant gust maliciously whisked off her little
gawd, and tossing it contumeliously on the ground, as if it were not
worth carrying, began to puff it along, skimming over the heather and
tussocks. Denis O'Meara all but rescued