is known beyond all telling by the one other person whom
it concerns. She felt suddenly that she was safe, that his heart was
torn for her sake, and that the tension of the last ten minutes had been
great. It went through her with a pang, and her head swayed against his
arm. In a moment she felt his lips on her hair, on her temple, and the
oldest, the most familiar of all words of endearment was spoken at her
ear. She recovered herself, but in a new world. She tried to walk on up
the lane, but stumbled in the deep ruts and found the supporting arm
again ready at need. She did not resist it.

A shrill neigh arose in front of them. The mare had pulled up at a
closed gate, and was apparently apostrophising some low farm buildings
beyond it. A dog barked hysterically, the door of a cowshed burst open,
and a man came out with a lantern.

"Oh, I know now where we are!" cried Fanny wildly, "it's Johnny
Connolly's! Oh, Johnny, Johnny Connolly, we've been run away with!"

"For God's sake!" responded Johnny Connolly, standing stock still in his
amazement, "is that Miss Fanny?"

"Get hold of the mare," shouted Rupert, "or she'll jump the gate!"

Johnny Connolly advanced, still calling upon his God, and the mare
uttered a low but vehement neigh.

"Ye're deshtroyed, Miss Fanny! And Mr. Gunning, the Lord save us! Ye're
killed the two o' ye! What happened ye at all? Woa, gerr'l, woa,
gerrlie! Ye'd say she knew me, the crayture."

The mare was rubbing her dripping face and neck against the farmer's
shoulder, with hoarse whispering snorts of recognition and pleasure. He
held his lantern high to look at her.

"Musha, why wouldn't she know me!" he roared, "sure it's yer own mare,
Miss Fanny! 'Tis the Connemara mare I thrained for ye! And may the divil
sweep and roast thim that has it told through all the counthry that she
was killed!"

A GRAND FILLY

I am an Englishman. I say this without either truculence or
vainglorying, rather with humility--a mere Englishman, who submits his
Plain Tale from the Western Hills with the conviction that the Kelt who
may read it will think him more mere than ever.

I was in Yorkshire last season when what is trivially called "the cold
snap" came upon us. I had five horses eating themselves silly all the
time, and I am not going to speak of it. I don't consider it a subject
to be treated lightly. It was in about the thickest of it that I heard
from a man I know in Ireland. He is a litt