THE FLOWERED HANDKERCHIEF.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1715, 11 January 1905, Page 9

THE FLOWERED HANDKERCHIEF.

(By Mrs J. M. Riddell.) I. Nearly fifty years ago there stood almost under tne shadow of Gave xiiii ooi tifie read leauing iroiti Belfast, past tatncunev, and. •eventually to tne Giants Causeway, a sntig, whitewashed cottage, surrounded by some seven lrisii acres,, tenanted by a man called Abel. Brady, wlio had been born in it during the troubled year 1798. . Built originally for a minister’s widow, a prettier home it would have been hard to find. ' many great residences could net have boasted such a view. lo rig;it and left bills soft and swelling, dark and lowering ; i named i a ely bey on a spreading grass land and wide plantations; below Belfast Bough, somet'meo tempest tossed, aga'n smooth as a f a -y lake; then the green slopes oj Down, which seemed to draw nearer and nearer at the approach of bad went he., as if with the intentiion of seeking shelter in Antrim; and, lastly, mountains towering apparently to heaven. • Yes. it was a fair landscape that lay spread before that humble home ; where monthly roses bloomed amid the my riles that covered the walls, and old-fashioned fuchsias grew largo as shrubs, in a garden filled with sweet-scented flowers and fruit trees, the very names of which are now forgotten. A homo worth fighting for, and in the low, wide rooms ha fid battles with poverty had been fought and w-wi by the aid of patient industry, untiring selfdenial. and indomitable courage. None save those aware cf how rents at thar time were ‘‘made up” throughout "Ulster bv the noorgr class of tenant farmer

can form an idea of the gallant stand made, of the brave deeds done by men and women, who never spoke of their struggle or asked belli when in. cl UP; cub v Whether the victory were worth the struggle can only he a matter of inT vidua! opinion. Those concerned evidently thought it was, and were happy accordingly. After all, to win is plea-sant-—and this was how they won.

They rented a few acres of land, and hired themselves cut as labourers in order to pay for it. They rose early, did what they could at home before starting for the -scene of their day’s labour, where they worked honestly from six to six, breaking their fast with a pioc9 of oatcake, and quenching their thirst by a draught from some limpio stream, cr it niigufc be a drink of m b cr buttermilk. Then they returned tc the domestic hearth, where not much more luxurious fare awaited them —and yet they were men as a rule cheerful and content—thankful they had a roof to ">-eUer tehm —-a bed to lie on, potatoes, and'children to eat them ; capable wives, able to keep things going while the; wore absent.

Shoulder to shoulder with their husbands those wives bravely; took part in the fray. They fed the cowhand pig'’, made the butter, saw the fields, were ploughed, and often lumped to sew them; sold the eggs, feathered the chickens, and bore themselves in the daily fight with equal courage, and no more complaint than the men. Virtues, however, sometimes throw lcng shadows; and it may have been from a too rapt contemplation of such constant repression and self-denial tha as a rule the children of those sturdy Ulster folk rarely took kindly to the lives their parents had led, but rathe enlisted, ran away to sea, emigrated—chose, in a word, any path rather than that leading back to the paternal fields and dull, monotonous round of labour. Thus it chanced that ont of many children Abel Brady had, when this story opens, only one at home; and she, having no taste for milking cows and rearing calves, devoted herself entirely to an industry which has since died out, but was then at. its zenith—embroidery, locally called ‘“flowering.” Mr Brady, who, though still in General Huxstep’s employment at low wages, had marched sufficiently on with the times to be called “bailiff,” because he sold hay and straw and “roots” for that gallant officer thought his daughter should have had “more pride than take to sewing just like any other girl.” But Susan preferred “sewing” to field work, and was. moreover, so skilled as an embroideress that she earned more each week than her father ever received from the General, and added so greatly to the home comfort that she was permitted to take her own way; which, indeed, she would in any ease. Kach week she walked into Bel last to return her six days’ labour and fetch a fresh supply, but she made no friends among the gills, or young, middle-aged and old women who thronged Mr McKedlock’s outer office, where they waited till their turn came to be praised or blamed, have their wages docked, or their pay in full without deduction. Young persons with “feathery heads” and manners to match, who were always getting fined, said ‘old McKcdlock” had a spite against them and was sweet on Sale Brady; blit the reason Susan received her proper wages chanced to be merely because Mr McKedlock had never known so good a “flowerer.”

Her work was as beautiful almost as

that which came at one time from French convents. She could do all studies —never puckered, never scamped— while the webs, robes, edgings and so forth entrusted to her were returned as clean as when given out, instead of luoKing as though they had been used for sweeping some chimney! Susan was a quiet girl, and a good. She kept herself to herself, and had ii«vor given her parents the slightest cause for anxiety, tiiL it suddenly ctawn£_d on Mr Brady from a word he heard “let falt r ’There was something m the air he had'‘‘bet-tor know mo. c about.” J-Le came to this conclusion one fine spr.ng evening while tramping home from the General’s, and it rather spoilt the satisfaction lie would otberwi-e have derived fro-in the smell of fremily baked potato cake which was only awaiting ais return to be taken off the gi.dle, blit'.ered and served piping hot for tea.

“You’re a bit late, Abe,” said his wife, a meek-faced, gen fie creature, across whose face many storms had blown without hardening it. “I ,vas hindered by the way,” he answered shortly. “Where’s Susan?” “Glider the weeping ash, I’m sure. She mostly gees there to get the last streak of light. Never was there such a girl fc-r work. I don’t know how she stands the sitting,” returned Mrs Brady, innocently unconscious she had perpe- > trated a “bull” or anything was wrong. •fit’s time she was in now,” said M>Brady. .“I’ll give her a call.” And he went into the garden, where, passing i.cng moss-grown walks bordered by • boxwood nearly two feet high, he soon , >me within sight of a beautiful woep- ; ing ash, under which, contrary to his j expectation, Susan sat sewing busily. She made a fair picture holding the !

tiny hoops then so indispensable to an embroidercss in her left hand, ■while with the needle in her right she swiftly “wrought ’ flower, leaf, spot and stem. Deftlv she had covered the design traced in blue with shamrocks and forget-me-nots, and, as her father drew near, was just beginning to fill in with threads of her own lovely hair the letteis 1.0. traced in old Knglisli characters. .15lit Brady could not see that 01 any sign of man! He only behold his pretty daughter with head bent over her tv oak, quite unconscious that every time she put in and drew out her needle she was stitching into the material not merely some of her own foolish heart, but also the whole of a terrible experience to come. She did not hear lier father appioacliing, and started like one l wakened suddenly out of a pleasant dream when he spoke:— , “Your mother says, if you want any tea it’s ready/’ was his salutation. ‘Til bo after you in a minute, answered the girl, wrapping lier hoops up carefully in a snowy cloth. “Is that for McKedlock?” Brady asked curiously. „ , . “No; I have .finished all I have of ms this week,” she answered. “Then who are you working foi now ? was the next inquiry. “Myself.”

“Ay —ay —and how long is it .since you started trade on your own account ?” “Since Muss Clara gave me enough linen to make a handkerchief,” said the girl, not sorry, perhaps, the tug-of-war had come. . , “Was that wliat you were folding up a while ago?” “It was” a little defiantly. “Bet me have a look at it.” For a moment Susan hesitated, and then, remembering the uselessness of contending with her parent, she undid

the parcel and produced a large square of linen hemstitched all round, and profusely embroidered in one corner, where, amid" the dainty shamrocks and forget-me-nots afore honourably mentioned, the still •imjpe.rfect-ly adorned letters loomed bare and strange before Aii Brady's puzzled eyes. It was not long, however, ore he grasped the fact that let those cabalistic signs mean what they might, it was intended to point their significance with his daughter's hair. About that there could be no mistake. Already around tlu; first symbol a line was traced upon the blue/ while from Susan s needle hung a streak of colour familiar to the man who-gazed—not the faint yellow of morning’s tender light, but the radiance of some sunset glory. xho “word dropped” had been true. There was mis chief afoot, and ho must get to know the rights of it ; therefore, without a change in his time, he asked: .‘•And what do those figures stand for?”

The girl again hesitated a second, then, summoning ail her courage, she sa -d—“They are not figures, but lei-

ters —T.S.’ ” •‘I deemed as much,” returned Mr •Brady; “and ‘T.S.’ means?” “Tom Skelton,’ she. answered. “'And where did you get acquainted -with Tom Skelton?” “At Mrs Diane’s. Sure he’s a tar-off cousin of lier’s.” “Far enough off to bo kept at a distance',” was the comment. “And so you’ve boon giving lnni meetings, and are even working him handkerchief s! I could not believe when it was told me how you were going on, but now I know. No, doubt he wants you to marry him?” —insinuatingly.

“Yes, father”—very softlj'. while that love-light which never illumines any female face after early youth shone in her dark blue eyes, and for a moment (the wild rose-pink cr lier cheeks to. crimson. “And.-when is he coming to ask my leave ?” “When lie may.” “Ho may as soon as he likes,” Mr Brady equably replied. Then in an access of fury, which seemed the more terrible because of the restrain he had put previously upon himself, he added‘•Ejufc it’s only fair to tell you the answer I’ll give—‘l’d rather see my daughter in her coffin than married to a blackguard like you.’ That is what lie’ll hear, and he can come any day arid hear it.” “Oh! and I love him. I can’t live without him.” “Then you will have to live without me,” was the uncompromising answer ; “but, remember, as you make your bed you will have to lie on it.” “I know that.” “And when you are married and supping sorrow with the spoon of grief you needn’t come crying homo about the lot you chose.” “I won’t,” with stubborn determination.

“See you don’t, then, because from the day you marry him you are no more a child of mine. I know now why you would have nothing to do with that decent lad Rube Ferran, a lad I could have taken to as my son ; but now—” “Tom hoped he might be just that.” put in Susan as her parent brc-ko down. “He has often said he’d like well to carry some of your heavy burden on his own shoulders, how sure lie felt he could make life easier for you, how ghut he'd he to help. Won’t you let him try, father? AVo-n't you let him try P' ami sin. Laid a persuaumg iaiMid on her patent’s

arm without producing the slightest effect—instead—

“I am very sure,” answered Brady, “he’d like well to hang up his hat in the home Ive wrought hard to keep together, that he would try to make life easier for me by adding his burdens to mine, that he’d be willing to help so long as he got more than lie gave, but, thank you, .no. I’ve made shift myself so far, and I hope I’ll be able to make shift to the end. as my own daughter won’t do her part and marry the man that might be the making of us all.”

“But though I like Bubo well, I don’t care for him as a girl should for the one wlio is to be her husband,” pleaded poor (Susan. “Then all I’ve to say is, I hope you’ll be content with the one you fancy, when you've got him. Come along, now, and have vour tea.”

"Which commonplace suggestion seemed, to a person whose nerves were highly strung, little short of saturine. brittle tea, however, served for the Bradv family that night, and most- of the “lovely” potato cake was put “past” for next dav.

11. That evening Susan did not take a' stroll to get a breath of fresh air, which, indeed, seemed a rat-heir unnecessary proceeding, since on fine days she lived almost entirely out of doors, pacing the bit of pasture land where cows picked up a bare subsistence, or standing near dvo weeping ash, or sitting on a threelegged stool inside a rough sort of arbour placed beside one of those clear, trickling brooks so common throughout Ireland. Perhaps, however, the '•'breath of air” meant- being rid of her hoops, which, except when asleep or at meals, she rarely laid aside. Driving the early fifties, children, girls and women were to be seen in Down andl Antrim squatting on doorsteps or leaning against walls and trunks of trees, or ‘‘resting'’ themselves by standing the while they “flowered”—• “flowered” incessantly. That was the industry which then kept females of all ages busy, held many a home together. brought in from a few pence to several shillings weekly, and, on the whole, was neither injurious morally nor unhealthy physically. Let us be just to its memory! On that evening, however, as has been said. Susan did not feel inclined for a stroll, rather, when tea was over she lighted a candle and went off to her own room, where she filled in those hieroglyphics which had puzzled Mr Brady, and then lay down, though not to rest. For hours she tossed and turned, thinking of what her father had said, and wondering what her lover would say. But no! she did not wonder, because she knew he would say in effect — “Only l>e true to me, darling, and it won’t matter ‘if father and mother and all should go mad.’ ” And she would true to him; but she was a good and wanted to be true to her parents also.

It was the old story, which has been repeated millions of times siiioe the Creation, and yet seems ever new, which never really varies, and still never palls; which will be told by fresh tongues while the world endures, and sound no more stale hundreds of years hence than if recited for the first time!

But how, Susan asked herself, could she endure such trouble ? Hew separate from her lover or face her father's anger ? What must she do ? Well, she had done one thing which seemed a comfort —wrought some of her very self into that handkerchief, which, whether they had to part or not, would always be a reminder to Tom of the girl who could never, never love another.

Weary and sad-eyed she rose next morning, dressed, and went into the kitchen, where Mrs Brady, who was washing up the breakfast things, said: “Your father bade me let you lie. He thought your head might be bad.’* “Oh l mother!” exclaimed the girl, touched by this kindness, and the two kissed fondly. Over night Mr Brady had talked matters out with las wife.

“There’s no good in. telling lie-r not to see the fellow,” he declared, “you must drive girls with a loose roin, for if you try to curb they’re sure to bolt, and do Heaven only knows what mischief. I’ve said all there’s any need to say, so if she wants more of this sheaf threshed she- must thresh it fo-r herself. But I’m thinking once Skelton knows lie’s not going to get anything out of me, weTL have little trouble. He’s one of that sort as goes courting for pudding and pie.” “It was not kind of Annie Drane, bringing Susie and him together,” replied Mrs Brady. “It passes my understanding how any woman, especially one that s a mother herself, could be so foolish.”

“Dees it?” returned her husband

“It does not pass mine. Mrs Drane wants ltube for lier Mollie, and knows she has not a chance while Susan stops single-.” “Do you believe that ?” surprised. “T am sure of it.”

“Then may Heaven forgive her!” exclaimed Mrs Brady. tr L don't believe it will,” said the honest Ulsterman, wJto would not have plotted harm agar, st his neighbour's child any more tha.l he would have stolen his neighbour’s money. “And turfJi her heart,” added his •wife, thus completing her former sentence.

“That it may, though it doesn’t seem likely,” returned Mr Brady; and the conversation ended, because/, though he and his class thought much about 6©rious subjects in those days they talked but little save “oats,” “roots,” “weather,” “prices,” and other things of like nature.

The bqst thoughts of a man’s mind rarely find utterance, though they influence dealings with liis fellows and obedience to orders issued from on High, and Brady, staunch in his humble way, seldom talked about, matters above bis comprehension, only faithfully tried to do what was right. Stuck reticencet filters through a family and stints even the confidences of mother and daughter; therefore, after that kiss, Susan said nothing except “I can’t give him up”-—brokenly. “Well, if you can’t, you can’t, girl,” was the reply, “but I hope he's worth holding on to, for the same house, I know, could never contain him and your father, who has been a good father to you. Now eat your breakfast, dear—a fasting sorrow is always harder to thole than a full; after a while you’ll may-be look at things differently-” “Never—never!” declared the girl. “Never is a long time; but eat something now, my lamb, and I’ll boil this pgg your father brought in hot out of the nest and told me to save for you.” It was all bribery and corruption, Susan felt, yet it touched her. Ah! Bpite of their hard ways, those Northern Irish had soft hearts and loved with an enduring love, just as the rank and file of English folk do. There is no “class” in love, or nabionajlity. either. On that common ground peer and peasant, negro and white, European and Asiatic, can meet on terms of perfect equality. It is love that makes trouble light. It is love which will one day put. what we call, in our ignorance, this “crooked” world straight. But Miss Susan had, like most young folks, her funny little fancies, onei being that handsome Mr Thomas Skelton was one of the elect.

Grandson of a smuggler-—son of a man in precisely the same rank as Mr Brady, - hwi nevertheless held his head high because he was good-looking and did not like work!

That day Susan went to Belfast and brought a fresh supply of very beautiful designs back with her. “I’m going to be dreadful busy, mother/’ she said on her return. “See, I’ve all this to get through next, wec-lc if I can.”

Which Mrs Brady understood, and rightly, meant she was not merely goring to kill sorrow with labour, but also to show father and lover what' she could do in the way of starting a home and keeping it together. When in the evening she stole out to meet young Skelton she told him not merely what her father said—a little softened —but what her powers were in the waj of earning money. tc l shall make close on a pound this week,” she said proudly. But he stopped the words with a kiss, and murmured—

“Sweetheart, X don’t -want your money, Only your love.” And shortly after departed.

For weeks he was more devoted than usual, and on occasion borrowed a few shillings, which she proudly lent. As for tho handkerchief, he declared lie would keep it next his heart for ever; indeed, he was very fond of the girl, who ' was so pretty, so winning, so tenldea*', and tried by art he knew to gain complete control over her. Matters went on in this way during most of the summer, tho lovers meeting as often as “press of work” per mi tied Skelton to get away from the office in which lie was employed, and which lie hated. Air Brady had been perfectly right in his conjecture that what his wouldbe son-in-law wanted was a place in which to “hang up his hat and do nothing save amuse himself.” “Whenever he sells those two colts he has on Drane’s meadows he’ll not show himself much here, or I’m mistaken,” the farmer said to his wife, who earnestly hoped it- would not lie long before Skelton effected a sale, because she was anxious, poor soul. The end came sooner than she hoped. One Saturday, when Susan, evidently with something on her mind, went out to meet her lover, who would have kissed her as usual had she not pushed him away. “Why, Susie 1” he cried in amazement. “I want to ask you one question,” she said, vainly trying to steady her voice. “What is it?” “Are you going to get married?” “Who has been putting such a notion into your head ?” “Never mind, are you or are you not? But I see you are.’*

“Some day, perhaps, I may be to you,” he answered lightly. ®Wou know you will, but not to me.” And then the flood-gates opened and her anger and sorrow found vent.

She did not say much, but what she did was to the purpose. Every word stung, and not till she suddenly stopped, after wailing out, “But it serves me right—it serves me well right!” could Skelton interpose a sentence. Then he only said—“l’ll never love anyone but you.”

“I don’t think much of the love that would bring a girl to shame,” she answered scornfully, and would have departed had he not entreated her to meet him once again. “I'll never meet you again,” she returned. f< Tf you’d been true I’d have worked for you, starved with you, but now—” and with a gesture she seemed to fling all her affection away, and walked off, never casting one backward glance at the man she had loved so utterly. “Ay, he’s going to wed a wife for money,” said Mrs Drane, when subsequently discussing the news with a neighbour. “The match was made up all in a hurry—the‘woman is old enough to be his mother, but she has a thousand pounds no less. Her father is in the Excise —no, they are not going to live with him, though he is giving them a lot of furniture. Tom will be set up now. Phil has told him to take his colts out of the meadow, for he’ll have them there no longer. Ay, as you say, it is hard on Sue Brady, but what else could she expect ?” What indeed. Her love dream was over—her heart broken—but she. know the dream had not brought her shame, and from the depths of a heart sorestricken was able to say—“ Thank God! Thank God!” 111. More than six months had passed, but still the cottage sheltered by Gave Hill turned a pleasant face to Belfast Lougli and Down’s green slopes. A few monthly roses bloomed in the old-fash-ioned garden, but the weeping ash, where Susan now seldom repaired to utilise the last glint of light, had shed its leaves. She had not been strong for a iong time; her father was ill, and affairs were altogether in a bad way in the pretty home, where what disaster might have happened save for faithful Rube it is hard to say. Hd managed to see both to his own farm and Mr Brady's, and find money to keep things going, to save Mrs Brady from feeling any pinch of poverty, and to let Susan understand he would still be her staunch friend, though she could not think of him as a husband. The amount she earned proved of infinite use, but there had been weeks and weeks when she could not work or do anything save remember she had been jilted by a man she trusted.

Rube, however, was always at hand to help and advise. He was there one morning, when she felt more than usually and rJ Hnswerd his entreaty that she would go out for a while and see if a “turn would not hearten her up a bit” with a shake of her head, which meant she did not like to show her white face to people, who would say she had washed all the pink out of it crying after a man who never wanted her, only what he thought she had. At his wits’ end to think how to bring comfort, he went into the garden with the intention of gathering two or three roses and plucking a little balm, and was so employed when he saw a hand w*aved over the hedge beckoning him. That hand belonged to Mary Drane, and had beckoned often before. Now, he did not like Mary Drane any better than her mother, so feigned blindness with respect to that hand; but he could not feign deafness also when sho began calling “Rube—Rube—come here, I’ve something awful to tell you.” Thus summoned, Air Ferran could not choose but hear, and, striding down one of those box-edged walks trodden before by Air Brady, soon found himself face to face with Mrs Drane’s eldest daughter, who said, in a hoarse sort of whisper—•

“What do you think? Mr Lennon has been murdered, and Tom Skelton is in custody.”

“For what?” asked Rube. “Killing him,” was the concise reply. Rube staggered back as if he had been shot. “Come out and I’ll tell you all about it-,’’ said tho girl, and Rube went out to hear. Air Lennon had been found “slain” on the Newtowna-rds. road, and Toni Skelton was in gaol for killing him. “But why should he want to kill Air Lennon?” asked Reuben incredulously. “Because lie could not get the thousand pounds while the old man lived,” replied Aliss Drane; “so Tom smashed his skull with a stone tied up in the handkerchief his love wrought for him.” ‘ I G re a t He a ven s! ” exclaimed R u be, in an agony, thinking of what this awful tragedy might means to Susan if true.

And it was true. Air Lennon bad been “slain” in the manner described,

and Skelton, accused of murdering him, was in custody. How Reuben broke the news to Mrs Brady he' never afterwards could tell, and of how Susan received such tidings he never heard. He knew Mi' Brady turned in his chair and groaned, but scarcely a word was said on the subject which occupied all minds. No one that day seemed to touch food or think of eating. Mechanically Mrs Brady went through her round of household duties, but such silence brooded over the cottage a corpse might, have been lying in every room.

Wliat a time it was that ensued! Skelton could not be tried for months, because the assies were far ahead, and no news came from his prison cell to indicate how matters would go. Before the magistrate accused had protested his innocence, but after that nothing was or could be heard of the case save those contradictory statements rumour is so fond of circulating. Had the man, whether guilty or not, been lying in his grave, he could scarcely have given less signs of life. "What the evide-nce might be against him—except that handkerchief—no one appeared to know, while the defence he meant to se : t up resolved itself, so far as the public were aware, into an emphatic denial. Susan Brady had given him a handkerchief which he lost very soon after. Ho knew nothing of what became of it—and had no notion whether that found was the same or not. At any rate, he had neither part nor lot in the murder, and there the matter rested till early spring, when interest in the case revived, and speculation again grew rife.

In the cottage, garden primroses and violets no one cared to look at wore scenting the air, when a “strange man” came through the gate wanting to see Miss Brady. Susan had opened the door, so asked his business. “I. am acting for Thomas Skelton/’ he answered, and then the girl knew her fears were about to take tangible form. “Gome in,” she said, and sat down to hear the worst.

What he wanted was very simple indeed ; stripped of all adornment only that she should perjure herself. They talked long and earnestly, but the talk always resolved itself into this—that the handkerchief must not be identified. “Besides,, he lost it,” said Skelton’s ambassador. “So he sent me word when I wanted it back again.”

“Well, then, there is no difficulty. In the first place, he lost it; in the second, it is not the same—you’d be sorry to' put the rope round his neck.” “I would; but I can’t swear what’s not true.”

“I don't ask you ; all you have to say is he lost your gift, and the one that will be produced is not the same. Come, could you declare on oath it is the same? Could you, for instance, if a baby’s robe were put before you, swear it was one you embroidered and had been paid for by AlcKedlock a year ago ?” “I could not. I might say it was like, but—”

“Then all you have to say is that- you could not. and save a man’s life. Very likely his life is not really in jeopardy; only if you stuck to that we’d be on the safe side.”

“B'ut I wrought the letters with m3 7 own hair.”

c And might- not anybody else have done the same ? Come, if he did jilt you, I’m sure you are too good to owe him a grudge.” She was trembling all over. “I’d save him if I could,” she gasped—“only I would not like to tell a lie* to man, and I can’t swear one to 1113* Alaker.” “I have not asked you to do an3 7 - thing of the kind. Just think the matter quietly over, and consider what you can do without perjuring yourself. I have no doubt he will be acquitted, still, every scrap of favourable evidence makes our case stronger. The whole thing has been too much for you. I opened the matter too suddenly. I ought to have prepared you a little. AI3 7 mind was so full, though, of the poor fellow’s terrible anxiety I did not consider anything else. I will call again in a few days, when I shall hope to find you in a different frame of mind. I don’t, want—l don’t ask you to tell an untruth, only to refrain from sajung something you may regret as long as you live.” “As long as I live,” thought Susan. —■ “and if I swore rashly, that’s what I would do. Oh! what am I to do—what am I to do at all?” She asked herself this question till she felt as if going mach, and then, to add to her perplexity, there recurred to memory the distinction drawn by a man “well respected” between good and bad lies —the latter being some falsehood told to injure another, and the former deviations from the truth which had for their object the benefit of a friend. No casuistry, however, could make the poor soul believe wrong right, and so the days went- by in a ceaseless struggle, which was not rendered any easier by being summoned as a witness at the trial which was now close at hand.

Strangely enough once she stood in the box her terrors disappeared. She

had not to state suppositions but facts. She could make the best of her evidence without stating untruths. Th« torn, discoloured handkerchief did not much resemble that dainty piece of linen which was always to. have been worn next a man’s heart, and the outcome of her evidence came only to this •—tliat she could not speak for certain one way or another. The pattern was Uke, but the hair looked different. Counsel for the prosecution did not press her unduly ; perhaps because the evidence of a sharp constabulary officer had virtually disposed of the case before she was called. His statement was tliat he had seen the accused searching around the scene of the murder at the first streak of day on the morning after Mr Lennon’s murder, presumably for that handkerchief taken off a stone which had struck a man dead, and asked him if he were locking for anything. This, added to the testimony of Mr Lennon’s solicitor concerning Mr Skelton’s indignation when he learnt that though Mrs Lennon had left a thousand pounds to her daughter, the income from that sum was paid to Mr Lennon during his life, decided the prisoner's fate. A verdict of wilful murder was returned 1 , the judge passed sentence of death, and the trial ended. But Susan's sorrows were only beginning. Everything best, and at the same time most trying, in the Irish nature Avas aroused by Tom Skelton’s fate.

A chorus of compassion and blame at once arose. Susan was denounced for sAvearing aAvay a man’s life, looked on as an informer, stated to liaA'e knotted the rope round her lover’s neck, and so forth. That curious hatred of IaAV and order tvliich is continually cropping up among even laAA'-abiding folk in Ireland found bitter expression against the Bradys, who “might have saved a poor felloAV sorely wronged” by his father-in-law, till the shadow of CaA'e Hill greAV black beyond description, and eA T en the Lougli with the sunlight sparkling upon it looked dreary. “We’ll have to get out of this,” said Mr Brady at last in despair. “Jack wants us to go to Canada, and, though it’s hard to leave the old place, we’ll need to flit.” “And let me flit with you,” entreated Reuben Ferrari. “If Susan will only bo my Avife, I’ll try to be a good son to you and a faithful husband to her. Will you, dear ? I’ve Avaited a. long time for you. Don’t deny me any longer.” She did not answer in words, for she could not, -but she put her hand in his, and they have Avalked si do by side ever since.