It is early morn. "The first low breath of waking day stirs the wide air." On bush and tree and opening flower the dew lies heavily, like diamonds in the light of the round sun. Thin clouds of pearly float slowly o'er the sky to meet its rays; and  

Do lace the clouds in yonder east.
Geoffrey, with his gun upon his shoulder, rejoicing in the freshness of the morning air.
 
To his right lies Bantry Bay, that now is spreading itself out in all its glory to catch the delicate of the sky above. They rush to greet it, and, sinking deep down into its embrace, lie there all day rocked to and fro by the restless ocean.
 
From the hills the of the heather is towards him, filling him with a subtle keen sense of youth and gladness and the absolute joy of living. His good dog is at his heels; a boy—procured from some neighboring cabin, and warranted not to wear out, however long the journey to be undertaken or how many miles to travel—carries his bag beside him.
 
Game as yet is not exactly : neither yesterday nor the day before could it be said that birds flock to his gun; there is, indeed, a settled as to whether one may or may not have a good day's sport. And yet perhaps this very uncertainty gives an additional excitement to the game.
 
Here and there a pack is discovered, so unexpectedly as to be doubly welcome. And sometimes a friendly native will tell him of some quiet corner where "his honor" will surely find some birds, "an be able in the evenin' to show raison for his blazin'." It is a somewhat wild life, but a pleasant one, and perhaps, on the whole, Mr. Rodney finds Ireland an agreeable take-in, and the inhabitants of it by no means as eccentric or as bloodthirsty as he has been led to believe. He has read innumerable works on the Irish peasantry, calculated to raise laughter in the breasts of those who claim the Emerald as their own,—works written by people who have never seen Ireland, or, having seen it, have thought it a pity to destroy the time has thrown over it, and so reduce it to commonplaceness.
 
He is, for instance, surprised, and indeed somewhat relieved, when he discovers that the drivers of the jaunting-cars that take him on his shooting-expeditions are not all modern Joe , and do not let off remarks, like bombshells, every two minutes.
 
He is perhaps disappointed in that every Irish cloak does not a face beautiful as a houri's. And he learns by degrees that only one in ten says "bedad," and that "och murther?" is an expression almost extinct.
 
They appear a , gentle, good-humored people,—easily led, no doubt (which is their undoing), but generous to the heart's core; a people who can speak English fluently (though with a rich brogue) and more grammatically than the Sassenachs themselves (of their own class), inasmuch as they respect their aspirates and never put an h in or leave one out in the wrong place.
 
The typical Irishman, in whom Lever delighted, with his knee-breeches and long-tailed coat, his pig under one arm and his shillalah under the other, is nowhere! The caubeen and the dhudheen which we are always hearing about may indeed be seen, but they are very usual objects in all lands, if one just alters the names, and scarcely create in the eyes of the on-looker.
 
The dhudheen is an institution, no doubt, but the owner of it, as a rule, is not to be found seated on a five-barred gate, with a shamrock pinned in his hat and a straw in his mouth, singing "Rory O'More" or "Paddy O'Rafferty," as the case may be. On the contrary, poor soul, he is found by Geoffrey either digging up his potatoes or stocking his turf for winter use.
 
Altogether, things are very disappointing; though perhaps there is comfort in the thought that no one is waiting round a corner, or lying perdu in a ditch, ready to smash the first comer with a blackthorn stick, or reduce him to with a pike, irrespective of cause or reason.
 
Rodney, with the boy at his side, is covering ground in a state of blissful uncertainty. He may be a mile from home, or ten miles, for all he knows, and the boy seems none the wiser.
 
"Where are we now?" says Geoffrey, suddenly, stopping and facing "the boy."
 
"I don't know, sir."
 
"But you said you knew the entire locality,—couldn't be puzzled within a of thirty miles. How far are we from home?"
 
"I don't know, sir. I never was abroad before, an' I'm dead now, an' the bag's like lead."
 
"You're a nice boy, you are!" says Mr. Rodney; "Here, give me the bag! Perhaps you would like me to carry you too; but I shan't, so you needn't ask me. Are you hungry?"
 
"No," says the boy ; but he looks hungry, and Geoffrey's heart him, the more in that he himself is starving likewise.
 
"Come a little farther," he says, gently, the heavy bag across his own shoulders. "There must be a somewhere."
 
There is. In the distance, imbedded in trees, lies an extensive farmstead, larger and more home-like than any he has yet seen.
 
"Now, then, cheer up, Paddy!" he says to the boy: "yonder lies an in our howling ."
 
Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his companion's , though in reality he understands it not at all.
 
As they draw still nearer, Geoffrey becomes aware that the farmyard before him is rich with life. Cocks are crowing, geese are cackling, and in the midst of all this life stands a girl with her back turned to the weary travellers.
 
"Wait here," says Geoffrey to his , and, going forward, rests the bag upon a low wall, and waits until the girl in question shall turn her head. When she does move he is still silent, for, , she has turned his head!
 
She is country bred, and clothed in country garments, yet her beauty is too great to be deniable. She is not "divinely tall," but rather of medium height, with an oval face, and eyes of "heaven's own blue." Their color changes too, and deepens, and darkens, and grows black and purple, as doth the above us. Her mouth is large, but gracious, and full of laughter mixed with truth and firmness. There is no feature that can so truly express character as the mouth. The eyes can shift and change, but the mouth retains its expression always.
 
She is clad in a snowy gown of simple cotton, that sits loosely to her figure yet fails to disguise the beauty of it. A white kerchief lies softly on her neck. She has pulled up her sleeves, so that her arms are bare,—her round, soft, naked arms that in themselves are a perfect picture. She is with her head well thrown back, and her hands—full of corn—lifted high in the air, as she cries aloud, "Cooee! Cooee!" in a clear musical voice.
 
Presently her cry is answered. A thick cloud of pigeons—brown and white and bronze and gray—come wheeling into sight from behind the old house, and tumble down upon her in a reckless fashion. They upon her head, her shoulders, her white soft arms, even her hands, and one, more than the rest, has even tried to find a slippery resting-place upon her .
 
"What greedy little things!" cries she aloud, with the merriest laugh in the world. "Sure you can't eat more than enough, can you? an' do your best! Oh, Brownie," reproachfully, "what a selfish bird you are!"
 
Here Geoffrey comes forward quietly, and lifts his hat to her with all the air of a man who is doing to a princess. It has occurred to him that perhaps this peerless being in the cotton gown will feel some natural on being discovered by one of the other sex with her sleeves tucked up. But in this instance his knowledge of human nature receives a severe shock.
 
Far from being disconcerted, this farmyard goddess is not even ashamed (as indeed how could she be?) of her naked arms, and, coming up to him, rests them upon the upper rung of the entrance-gate and surveys him calmly if kindly.
 
"What can I do for you?" she asks, gently.
 
"I think," says Geoffrey, slightly disconcerted by the sweet leisure of her gaze, "I have lost my way. I have been walking since sunrise, and I want you to tell me where I am."
 
"You are at Farm," returns she. Then, judging by the blank expression on his face that her words bring him no comfort, she continues with a smile, "That doesn't seem to help you much, does it?"
 
He returns her smile in full,—very full. "I confess it doesn't help me at all," he says. "Mangle Farm, I am sure, is the most attractive spot on earth, but it tells me nothing about or . Give me some further help."
 
"Then tell me where you come from, and perhaps I may be able." She speaks softly, but quickly, as do all the Irish, and with a brogue musical but unmistakable.
 
"I am staying at a shooting-lodge called Coolnagurtheen. Do you know where that is."
 
"Oh, of course," returns she, with a sudden accession of . "I have often seen it. That is where the young English gentleman is staying for the shooting."
 
"Quite right. And I am the young English gentleman," says Geoffrey, lifting his hat again by way of introduction.
 
"Indeed, are you?" asks she, raising her pretty brows. Then she smiles involuntarily, and the pink flush in her rounded cheeks grows a shade deeper. Yet she does not lower her eyes, or show the slightest touch of confusion. "I might have guessed it," she says, after a minute's survey of the tall gray-coated young man before her. "You are not a bit like the others down here."
 
"Am I not?" says he, , putting on his carefully air that has generally been found so highly successful. "Tell me my fault."
 
"I will—when I find it," returns she, with an irrepressible glance, full of native but innocent coquetry, from her beautiful eyes.
 
At this moment one of the pigeons—a small, pretty thing, bronze-tinged—flies to her, and, resting on her shoulder, makes a tender cooing sound, and picks at her cheek reproachfully, as though more corn.
 
"Would you bite me?" she, fondly, as the bird flies off again alarmed at the presence of the tall stranger, who already is busy comparing most favorably the face of its mistress with the faces of all the fashionable beauties London has been about for eighteen months. "Every morning they me like this," she says, turning to Geoffrey, with a little pleasant nod.
 
"He looked as if he wanted to eat you; and I'm sure I don't wonder at it," says Geoffrey, making the addition to his speech in a lower key.
 
"And have you walked from Coolnagurtheen this morning? Why, it is eight miles from this," says she, taking no notice of his last speech. "You could have had no breakfast!"
 
"Not yet; but I suppose there must be a village near here, and an inn, and I want you to direct me how to get to it. I am giving you a great deal of trouble," , "but my boy knows nothing."
 
He points as he speaks to the ignorant Paddy, who is sitting on the ground with his knees between his hands, crooning a ditty.
 
"The village is two miles farther on. I think you had better come in and breakfast here. Uncle will be very glad to see you," she says, . "And you must be tired."
 
He hesitates. He is tired, and hungry too; there is no denying. Even as he hesitates, a girl coming out to the door-step puts her hand over her eyes, and shouts pleasantly from afar to her mistress,—
 
"Miss Mona, come in; the tay will be cold, an' the rashers all spoiled, an' the masther's callin' for ye."
 
"Come, hurry," says Mona, turning to Geoffrey, with a light laugh that seems to spring from her very heart. "Would you have the 'tay' get cold while you are making up your mind? I at least must go."
 
She moves from him.
 
"Then thank you, and I shall go with you, if you will allow me," says Geoffrey, hurriedly, as he sees her disappearing.
 
"Tell your boy to go to the kitchen," says Mona, thoughtfully, and, Paddy being disposed of, she and Geoffrey go on to the house.
 
They walk up a little gravelled path, on either side of which trim beds of flowers are cut, bordered with stiff box. All sorts of pretty, sweetly-smelling old wild blossoms are blooming in them, as gayly as though they have forgotten the fact that autumn is rejoicing in all its matured beauty. and white and purple asters stand calmly gazing towards the sky; here a flaming fuchsia its head, and there, apart from all the rest, smiles an rose.
 
"That like a queen the sun
Dew-diadem'd."
Behind the house rises a thick wood,—a "solemn wood," such as Dickens loved to write of, with its lights and shades and every-varying . A gentle wind is rushing through it now; the faint of some "hidden brook," singing its "quiet tune," fall upon the ear; some happy birds are warbling in the . It is a day whose beauty may be felt.
 
"I have no card but my name is Geoffrey Rodney," says the young man, turning to his companion.
 
"And mine is Mona Scully," returns she, with the smile that seems part of her lips, and which already has engraven itself on Mr. Rodney's heart. "Now, I suppose, we know each other."
 
They walk up two steps, and enter a small hall, and then he follows her into a room opening off it, in which breakfast lies prepared.
 
It is in Geoffrey's eyes a very curious room, unlike anything he has ever seen before; yet it possesses for him (perhaps for that very reason) a certain charm. It is uncarpeted, but the boards are white as snow, and on them lies a fine sprinkling of dry sand. In one of the windows—whose are diamond-shaped—two geraniums are in full flower; upon the deep seat belonging to the other lie some books and a stocking half knitted.
 
An old man, but kindly-featured, rises on his entrance, and gazes at him expectantly. Mona, going up to him, rests her hand upon his arm, and, indicating Geoffrey by a gesture, says, in a low tone,—
 
"He has lost his way. He is tired, and I have asked him to have some breakfast. He is the English gentleman who is living at Coolnagurtheen."
 
"You're kindly welcome, sir," says the old man, bowing with the slow and heavy movement that belongs to the . There is dignity and warmth, however, in the , and Geoffrey accepts with pleasure the toil-worn hand his host presents to him a moment later. The breakfast is good, and, though composed of only country fare, is delicious to the young man, who has been walking since dawn, and whose appetite just now would have astonished those in crowded towns and living only on their excitements.
 
The house, is home-like, sweet, and one which might perhaps day by day grow dearer to the heart; and this girl, this pretty creature who every now and then turns her eyes on Geoffrey, as though glad in a kindly fashion to see him there, seems a necessary part of the whole,—her gracious presence it each moment sweeter and more desirable. "My to all who build is," says Cicero, "that the owner should be an to the house, and not the house to the owner."
 
Mona pours out the tea—which is excellent—and puts in the cream—which is a thing to dream of—with a liberal hand. She smiles at Geoffrey across the sugar-bowl, and to him over the big bowl of flowers that lies in the centre of the table. Not a hothouse faultlessly arranged, by any means, but a great, tender, happy, straggling bunch of flowers that seem to have fallen into their places of their own accord, regardless of coloring, and fill the room with their perfume.
 
His host going to the window when breakfast is at an end, Geoffrey follows him; and both look out upon the little garden before them that is so carefully and lovingly tended.
 
"It is all her doing," says the old man,—"Mona's, I mean. She loves those flowers more than anything on earth, I think. Her mother was the same; but she wasn't half the lass that Mona is. Never a mornin' in the cowld winter but she goes out there to see if the frost hasn't killed some of 'em the night before."
 
"There is hardly any taste so charming or so as that for flowers," says Geoffrey, making this little speech, that sounds like a copy-book, in his most engaging style. "My mother and cousin do a great deal of that sort of thing when at home."
 
"Ay, it looks pretty and gives the child something to do." There is a regretful ring in his tone that induces Geoffrey to ask the next question.
 
"Does she—does Miss Scully find country life unsatisfying? Has she not lived here always?"
 
"Law, no, sir," says the old man, with a loud and laugh. "I think if ye could see the counthry girls round here, an' compare 'em with my Mona, you'd see that for yerself. She's as fine as the queen to them. Her mother, you see, was the parson's daughter down here; tiptop she was, and purty as a fairy, but delicate; looked as if a march wind would blow her into heaven. Dan—he was a brother of mine, an' a in Dublin. You've been there, belike?"
 
"Yes; I stopped there for two or three days on my way down here. Well—and—your brother?" He cannot to himself explain the interest he feels in this story.
 
"Dan? He was a fine man, surely; six feet in his stockin', he was, an' eyes like a woman's. He come down here an' met her, an' she married him. Nothing would stop her, though the parson was fit to be tied about it. An' of course he was no match for her,—father bein' only a bricklayer when he began life,—but still I will say Dan was a fine man, an' one to think about; an' no two ways in him, an' that soft about the heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on; an' four years after their marriage she told me herself she never had an ache in her heart since she married him. That was fine tellin', sir, wasn't it? Four years, mind ye. Why, when Mary was alive (my wife, sir) we had a shindy twice a week, reg'lar as clockwork. We wouldn't have known ourselves without it; but, however, that's nayther here nor there," says Mr. Scully, pulling himself up short. "An' I ask yer pardon, sir, for pushing private matters on ye like this."
 
"But you have interested me," says Geoffrey, seating himself on the broad sill of the window, as though preparing for a long on matters still unknown. "Pray tell me how your brother and his lovely wife—who evidently was as wise and true as she was lovely—got on."
 
Mr. Rodney's face being of that rare kind that is as tender as it is , and by right of its beauty demands confidence, the old man (who dearly loves his own voice) is encouraged to proceed.
 
"They didn't get on for long," he says, mournfully,—and what voice is so full of melancholy as the Irish voice when it sinks into sadness? "When the little one—Mona—was barely five years old, they went to ground; Mount Jerome got them. Fever it was; and it carried 'em both off just while ye'd have time to look round ye. Poor souls, they went to the blessed land together. Perhaps the Holy Virgin knew they would have got on badly without each other anywhere."
 
"And the child,—Miss Mona?" asks Geoffrey.
 
"She went to live in Anthrim with her mother's sister. Later she got to Dublin, to her aunt there,—another of the parson's daughters,—who married the Provost in Thrinity; a proud sort he was, an' awful with his Greeks an' his Romans, an' not the height of yer thumb," says Mr. Scully, with contempt. "I went to Dublin one day about cattle, and called to see me niece; an' she took to me, bless her, an' I brought her down with me for change of air, for her cheeks were whiter than a fleece of wool, an' she has stayed ever since. Dear soul! I hope she'll stay forever. She is welcome."
 
"She must be a great comfort to you," says Geoffrey from his heart.
 
"She is that. More than I can say. An' keeps things together, too. She is clever like her father, an' he was on the fair way to make a fortune. Ay, I always say it, law is the thing that pays in Ireland. A good sound fight sets them up. But I'm keeping you, sir, and your gun is waitin' for ye. If you haven't had enough of me company by this," with another jolly laugh, "I'll take ye down to a field hard by, an' show ye where I saw a fine young covey only yesternight."
 
"I—I should like to say good-by to Miss Mona, and thank her for all her goodness to me, before going," says the young man, rising somewhat slowly.
 
", you can say all that on your way back, an' get a half-shot into the bargain," says old Scully, . "You'll hardly beat the potheen I can give ye." He knowingly, pats Rodney kindly on the shoulder, and leads the way out of the house. Yet I think Geoffrey would willingly have potheen, partridge, and a good deal more, for just one last glance at Mona's beautiful face before parting. Cheered, however, by the that he may see her before night falls, he follows the farmer into the open air.