ing. Her pretty brow was puckered
as she gazed at the photograph of a young man, tall, fair, and handsome.
For some time she cogitated, then, setting her lips together, she tore
the card straight across, dropped it into the waste-paper basket beside
her, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, exclaiming in a tone more
forcible than polite, "Brute!"

* * * * *

Leslie Hamilton stood outside the door of Mr. Vandaleur's handsome town
residence. The footman, gorgeously attired, opened the heavy door.

"Not at 'ome, sir," he answered pompously in answer to inquiries.

"My good man, you have made some mistake; I am Leslie Hamilton, and I
wish to see Miss Vandaleur."

"Very sorry, sir, no mistake, sir; Miss Vandaleur is not at 'ome!" and
the door closed in the face of the astonished artist.

* * * * *

It was June in Connemara. Where else is the month of roses half as
lovely? where does the sky show bluer, or the grass greener? and where
is the air so clear and cool and fragrant, or the lakes half as still
and azure as in that blessed country?

The sun rode high in the sky, monarch of all, and men smiled as they
went about their daily toil, and thanked the good God who was sending
them favourable weather. Here and there, dotted about the hillsides, the
tiny white-washed cabins were full of life; the cocks crowed proudly as
they strutted in and out among their plump, sleek wives; the useful ass
brayed loudly, roaming about field and lane in enjoyment of a leisure
hour; the men were in the fields, cutting the sweet-scented grass, and
the women busied themselves about the midday meal, while babies, with
dirty faces and naked feet, tumbled about among the wandering pigs and
quacking ducks in blissful content.

Along the white road that bordered the lake a cart was jolting slowly
along; it was painted in a startling shade of blue, with shafts of
brightest red that projected both back and front; upon it was arranged,
with neatness and precision, a load of turf just cut from the bog; on
one side, painted black, that all who run might read, was the name of
"Patrick O'Malley" in crude lettering, and Patrick himself, in working
dress of coarse cream homespun, walked beside his slow-going jennet,
idly smoking his tin-topped pipe. From time to time he drew from his
trouser pocket a letter, which he fingered with respect, gazing at it
with profoundest wonder.

"Shure, 't