gley's little goat,
who had been struck dead by a lightning flash, to the sorrow of her
owners, and the awe of all Lisconnel in contemplation of the black and
white body stretched out still on her wide grazing-ground.

The storm, however, seemed to have broken up the fair weather, and the
days that followed it were blustery and rainy. On the next of them Larry
Sullivan and Felix Morrough were seen passing through Lisconnel,
evidently equipped for a journey. Larry, who had parted from no near
friends, was apparently in good spirits; but Felix looked so much cast
down that his contemporaries refrained from any references to the days
of the week, and the pair went on their way unmolested amongst the
lengthening shadows. They reported the storm to have been terrific
altogether up at Laraghmena. The Widdy Bourke's thatch was set in a
blaze, "and it was a livin' miracle that the whole of them wasn't
frizzled up like a pan of fryin' herrin's."

It may have been ten days or so after this that a good many of the
neighbours had dropped in one evening at Mrs. Doyne's. She had been
ailing of late, and old Dan O'Beirne had stepped up from the forge to
prescribe for her, and cheer her with accounts of how finely young Dan
and her daughter Stacey were getting on at their place down below in
Duffclane. The rest of the party had assembled merely for company and
conversation. It included members of nearly all our families--Kilfoyles
and Quigleys and Ryans and Raffertys and the Widdy M'Gurk and Big Anne.
Presently Judy Ryan, who was looking out of the door, had an
announcement to make.

"Whethen now, and who might yous be when you're at home? There's two
women comin' along the road from Sallinbeg ways, I dunno the looks of at
all, I should say; but the rain's mistin' thick between me and them.
Carryin' bundles they are. If they're not any of the Tinkers we're right
enough. One of them's a little ould body, and the other's a good size
bigger. Strangers they are. Och, mercy on me, have I eyes in me head at
all? How strange she is! Sure it's Theresa Joyce herself. But we haven't
seen her this great while, and who she has along wid her I couldn't be
tellin' you. A feeble sort of crathur she looks to be, accordin' to the
way she's foostherin' along."

When these two travellers arrived at the Doynes' door, nobody failed to
recognise Theresa Joyce, notwithstanding the estrangement of a long
absence; and she hastened to introduce her unknown