cried, losing all self-command; "oh, if it is you,
forgive me, don't leave me. Don't let me wake and find it a dream!"

A strange whizzing and whirling came over her, and then she felt herself
held securely by a strong arm and a face was bent to hers. When she
recovered herself somewhat, she found that she was seated on a bank,
supported by her husband.

It was his voice that said in the old fond tones: "Oh, Norah, my Norah,
we are together again, never, never more to part. Forgive me, darling,
for all I have made you suffer in the past."

"Forgive you! Oh, Edgar! Will you forgive me?"

The sun rose higher, and sounds of everyday life filled the air, drawing
those two into the practical everyday world, out of the sunny paradise
in which they had been basking while Norah sat leaning against that
strong true heart that all these years had beat only for her.

[Sidenote: The story of a simple Irish girl, a sorrow, and a
disillusion.]

The Queen of Connemara

BY

FLORENCE MOON

The mountains of Connemara stretched bare and desolate beneath the
November sky.

Down the bleak mountain side, with his broad-leaved _caubeen_ (peasant's
hat) pulled well over his face, tramped a tall young countryman, clad in
a stout frieze coat. His was an honest face, with broad, square brow,
eyes of speedwell-blue that looked steadfast and fearless, and a mouth
and chin expressive both of strength and sweetness.

Dermot O'Malley was the only son of Patrick and Honor O'Malley, who
dwelt in a little white-washed farmhouse near the foot of the mountain.
His father tilled a few acres of land--poor stony ground, out of which
he contrived to keep his family and to save a little besides.

The little patch surrounding the farmhouse was, in its proper season,
gay with oats and barley, while potatoes and cabbage, the staple food of
the peasant, flourished in plenty. With such a desirable home, such a
"likeable" face, and steady, upright character, it was no wonder that
Dermot O'Malley was the object of much admiration among the people of
the mountains, and several scheming parents had offered their daughters
and their "fortunes" to him through the medium of his father, according
to the custom of the country.

But Dermot resisted all their overtures; his heart, and all the honest
true love that filled it to overflowing, was given to Eily Joyce, the
carrier's daughter; for her he would have laid down his strong young
life.

It was