A born traveller, the vagabond\'s instinct of forming pleasant friendships along the highroads that are buried with the last hand-shake showed itself on this my first voyage, and has never forsaken me throughout an accidented and varied career. I might have treasured sheaves of visiting-cards with names in every language bearing addresses in every possible town of Europe and Asia and numbers of American States. On this occasion no names or cards were exchanged between me and the lady with the sealskin coat. But she adopted me for the hours that passed until we reached Crewe, when I was ejected from the warm home of her lap, and cast out into the cold of a winter\'s night.

She led me by the hand to look again at the ropes and the sailors, and tumble down and scramble up the companion-stairs, while Sister Clare groaned and prayed in her cabin. Indeed, I may say that I had forgotten all about my[Pg 121] veiled jailor, and, my tears once dried, prattled delightedly to this pretty sympathetic creature, whose lovely furs and wide hat of black plumes and black velvet made of her a princess of fairyland. Then when the caprices of the sea distressed us in our wanderings, I fell asleep in her lap, luxurious and happy, being quite at rest now about the sharks, since my new friend had patiently assured me there was nothing to fear from them.

I can now imagine what a quaint picture this motherly young lady, with the softly folding arms and the humid dusky glance, that was in itself the sweetest of caresses, may have made afterwards of our friendship, the tenderness with which she would sketch my portrait and repeat my childish confidences, the pity and indignation with which my forlornness must have filled her. A child with a home, a mother, a family, cast adrift on a grey winter\'s sea! Travelling from one land to another, like a valueless packet given in charge to a stranger!

I hardly remember our parting. It was late, and I was dreaming, heaven knows of what,—of the chocolate drops she had given me, or of the dear little trays of apples Bessy the applewoman sold down at Kildare. Hard arms [Pg 122]securely caught me, and whisked me out of my delicious nest. Instead of warm fur against my cheek, I felt a blast of black-grey air, and with a howl of dismay I found myself blinking in the noisy glitter of a big station. The lady bent her charming head out of the window, smiling sadly at me from under the heavy shadow of her velvet plumed hat. I felt that she parted from me reluctantly, and knew that she had given me a passing shelter in her kind heart.

The night outside seemed bitterly cold without her protecting tenderness, and I made a stoic effort to swallow my tears, and let myself be dragged ferociously by Sister Clare, for whom I was merely baggage, to the Birmingham train. As for impressions, these were stationary, not going beyond the voice and furs of my new friend, and I was far too sorry and sleepy and weary to note anything fresh.

Lysterby, I have since been informed, is an ugly little town; but in those remote, uncritical days it appeared to me the centre of loveliness. Flowers are rare in Ireland, and here roses, red and white, grew wild and luxuriant along the lanes. But to an imaginative and romantic child, a place so peopled with legend and gay and tragic historical figures could not fail to be[Pg 123] beautiful. In one of the common streets you looked up and saw the painted bust of a medieval knave, craning his ruffianly neck out of a window-frame, and the fellow, you were told, answered to the name of Peeping Tom. Instantly the street ceased to be real, and you were pitched pell-mell into the heart of romance.

I have not seen the place since childhood; but it remains in memory blotted, fragmentary, picturesque, an old-fashioned little town, with spired churches, rough, clean little streets, rare passers-by, never so hurried that the double file from the Ivies, under the guard of the austere ladies of Mercy, did not attract their attention, and sometimes with discomposing emphasis, as when the little street blackguards would shout after us:—
"Catholics, Catholics, quack, quack, quack,
Go to the devil and never come back!"

I remember the Craven Arms, a medieval inn all hung with roses and ivy, where my parents stayed when they came to see me, and where my sister and I slept in a long low-beamed chamber, with windows made of a surprising pattern of tiny diamond squares and green lattices that excited our enthusiastic admiration. I remember the bowling-green, that appeared to roll like[Pg 124] a sea straight to the sky, and the long, long roads with fields on either side, and the great historic ruin that has given its name to one of Scott\'s novels.

To me it is impossible to recall the leafy lanes, rose-scented; the narrow pavements and sleepy little shops; the great pageant, when the town\............