t she did not attempt to
move, nor show any of those symptoms of reverence which are habitual
to the Irish when those of a higher rank enter their cabins.

"You seem to be very poorly off here," said Herbert, looking round
the bare walls of the cabin. "Have you no chair, and no bed to lie
on?"

"'Deed no," said she.

"And no fire?" said he, for the damp and chill of the place struck
through to his bones.

"'Deed no," she said again; but she made no wail as to her wants, and
uttered no complaint as to her misery.

"And are you living here by yourself, without furniture or utensils
of any kind?"

"It's jist as yer honour sees it," answered she.

For a while Herbert stood still, looking round him, for the woman was
so motionless and uncommunicative that he hardly knew how to talk
to her. That she was in the lowest depth of distress was evident
enough, and it behoved him to administer to her immediate wants
before he left her; but what could he do for one who seemed to be so
indifferent to herself? He stood for a time looking round him till he
could see through the gloom that there was a bundle of straw lying in
the dark corner beyond the hearth, and that the straw was huddled up,
as though there were something lying under it. Seeing this he left
the bridle of his horse, and stepping across the cabin moved the
straw with the handle of his whip. As he did so he turned his back
from the wall in which the small window-hole had been pierced, so
that a gleam of light fell upon the bundle at his feet, and he could
see that the body of a child was lying there, stripped of every
vestige of clothing.

For a minute or two he said nothing--hardly, indeed, knowing how to
speak, and looking from the corpselike woman back to the lifelike
corpse, and then from the corpse back to the woman, as though he
expected that she would say something unasked. But she did not say a
word, though she so turned her head that her eyes rested on him.

He then knelt down and put his hand upon the body, and found that
it was not yet stone cold. The child apparently had been about four
years old, while that still living in her arms might perhaps be half
that age.

"Was she your own?" asked Herbert, speaking hardly above his breath.

"'Deed, yes!" said the woman. "She was my own, own little Kitty." But
there was no tear in her eye or gurgling sob audible from her throat.

"And when did she die?" he asked.

"'Deed, thin, and I don't jist know