wore a
white cap, a grey bodice, a thick woollen red petticoat, under which her
bare lean legs showed, came to the door, waving the yellow hen off her
perch.

"Good day to you, Mrs. Deely," Denis Donohoe said, showing his strong
teeth.

"Welcome, Denis. Won't you step in and warm yourself at the fire, for
the day is sharp, and you are early on the road?"

Denis Donohoe sat with the woman by the fire for some time, their
exchange of family gossip quiet and agreeable. The young man was,
however, uneasy, glancing about the house now and then like one who
missed something. The woman, dropping her calm eyes on him, divined his
thoughts.

"Agnes is not about," she said. "She started off for the Cappa Post
Office an hour gone, for we had tidings that a letter is there for us
from Sydney."

"A letter from her sister?"

"Yes, Mary is married there and doing well."

Denis Donohoe resumed his journey.

At the appointed spot he ravenously devoured the oaten bread, then
stretched himself on his stomach on the ground and took some draughts of
water from a roadside stream, drawing it up with a slow sucking noise,
his teeth chattering, his eyes on the bright pebbles that glittered
between some green cress at the bottom. When he had finished the donkey
also laved his thirst at the spot.

He reached the market town while it was yet morning. He led the creel of
turf through the straggling streets, where some people with the sleep in
their eyes were moving about. The only sound he made was a low word of
encouragement to the donkey.

"How much for the creel?" a man asked, standing at his shop door.

"Six shilling," Denis Donohoe replied, and waited, for it was above the
business of a decent turf-seller to praise his wares or press for a
sale.

"Good luck to you, son," said the merchant, "I hope you'll get it." He
smiled, folded his hands one over the other, and retired to his shop.

Denis Donohoe moved on, saying in an undertone to the donkey, "Gee-up,
Patsy. That old fellow is no good."

There were other inquiries, but nobody purchased. They said that money
was very scarce. Denis Donohoe said nothing; money was too remote a
thing for him to imagine how it could be ever anything else except
scarce. He grew tired of going up and down past shops where there was no
sign of business, so he drew the side streets and laneways, places where
children screamed about the road, where there was a scent of soapy
water, where women c