ng on it."

Some of the young men and girls never see each other before the
marriage, Moya says. "But sure," she adds shyly, "I'd niver be contint
with that, though some love matches doesn't turn out anny better than
the others."

"I hope it will be a love match with you, and that I shall dance at your
wedding, Moya," I say to her smilingly.

"Faith, I'm thinkin' my husband's intinded mother died an old maid in
Dublin," she answers merrily. "It's a small fortune I'll be havin' and
few lovers; but you'll be soon dancing at Kathleen Brodigan's wedding,
or Kitty O'Rourke's, maybe."

I do not pretend to understand these humble romances, with their
foundations of cows and linen, which are after all no more sordid than
bank stock and trousseaux from Paris. The sentiment of the Irish peasant
lover seems to be frankly and truly expressed in the verses:--

'Oh! Moya's wise and beautiful, has wealth in plenteous store,
And fortune fine in calves and kine, and lovers half a score;
Her faintest smile would saints beguile, or sinners captivate,
Oh! I think a dale of Moya, but I'll surely marry Kate.

. . . . .

'Now to let you know the raison why I cannot have my way,
Nor bid my heart decide the part the lover must obey--
The calves and kine of Kate are nine, while Moya owns but
eight,
So with all my love for Moya I'm compelled to marry Kate!'

I gave Moya a lace neckerchief the other day, and she was rarely
pleased, running into the cabin with it and showing it to her mother
with great pride. After we had walked a bit down the boreen she excused
herself for an instant, and, returning to my side, explained that she
had gone back to ask her mother to mind the kerchief, and not let the
'cow knock it'!

Lady Kilbally tells us that some of the girls who work in the mills deny
themselves proper food, and live on bread and tea for a month, to
save the price of a gay ribbon. This is trying, no doubt, to a
philanthropist, but is it not partly a starved sense of beauty asserting
itself? If it has none of the usual outlets, where can imagination
express itself if not in some paltry thing like a ribbon?

Chapter XIV. Mrs. Mullarkey's iligant locks.

'Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.'
William All