“True,” cried Standish; “outside is the world that needs Irish hands and hearts to make it better worth living in.” The young man was so enthusiastic in the utterance of his part in the dialogue as to cause the bard to look suddenly up. “Yes, the hands and the hearts of the Irish have done much,” he said. “Let the men go out into the world for a while, but let our daughters be spared to us.” Standish gave a little start and looked inquiringly into the face of the bard. “What do you mean, Murrough?” he asked slowly. The bard leant forward as if straining to catch some distant sound. “Listen to it, listen to it,” he said. There was a pause, and through the silence the moan of the far-off ocean was borne along the dim glen. “It is the sound of the Atlantic,” said Standish. “The breeze from the west carries it to us up from the lough.” “Listen to it and think that she is out on that far ocean,” said the old man. “Listen to it, and think that Daireen, daughter of the Geralds, has left her Irish home and is now tossing upon that ocean; gone is she, the bright bird of the South--gone from those her smile lightened!” Standish neither started nor uttered a word when the old man had spoken; but he felt his feet give way under him. He sat down upon a crag and laid his head upon his hand staring into the black tarn. He could not comprehend at first the force of the words “She is gone.” He had thought of his own departure, but the possibility of Daireen's had not occurred to him. The meaning of the bard's lament was now apparent to him, and even now the melody seemed to be given back by the rocks that had heard it: Why art thou gone from us, Soul of all beauty and joy? The words moaned through the dim air with the sound of the distant waters for accompaniment. “Gone--gone--Daireen,” he whispered. “And you only tell me of it now,” he added almost fiercely to the old man, for he reflected upon the time he had wasted in that duet of lamentation over the ruins of his country. What a wretchedly trivial thing he felt was the condition of the country compared with such an event as the departure of Daireen Gerald. “It is only since morning that she is gone,” said the bard. “It was only in the morning that the letter arrived to tell her that her father was lying in a fever at some place where the vessel called on the way home. And now she is gone from us, perhaps for ever.” “Murrough,” said the young man, laying his hand upon the other's arm, and speaking in a hoarse whisper. “Tell me all about her. Why did they allow her to go? Where is she gone? Not out to where her father was landed?” “Why not there?” cried the old man, raising his head proudly. “Did a Gerald ever shrink from duty when the hour came? Brave girl she is, worthy to be a Gerald!” “Tell me all--all.”