In the course of a few minutes the red cloak is again seen coming up the road, closely followed by another figure. We soon hear sounds of earnest pleading, in a broad Irish brogue, from our friend of the red cloak. As they approach the gate sound distinctly the words,-- 'It's all thrue, my leddy--as thrue as the blessed gospel. I'm afeered she's dyin' if yer honour's glory won't lend us a hand.' 'I don't know how to believe you, my good woman, for some of you come every week and deceive me with all kinds of stories.' 'An' she's Welsh, yer honour. She's come to find out her friends, my leddy! God bless ye, ye've a kind eye and a gintle voice,' Red cloak spoke the truth. The woman who is now added to the group has truly 'a kind eye and a gintle voice.' She is short and small of form, of middle age and matronly appearance; neatly and even handsomely dressed, as becomes the mistress of one of the largest and wealthiest farms of a country where large farms are rare. She has a handsome, placid face, and looks as if the world had moved on quietly and happily ever since she had been on its surface. Her dark eyes, that must once have been bright and piercing, are softened down to gentleness by the quieting hand of time; and the black hair is slightly streaked with white by the same unsparing fingers. But for this, age would seem to have little to do with the comely dame who is now bending her neatly-attired head before the shabby-looking girl against the wall, 'What is the matter with you, my poor girl?' says the 'gintle voice,' These kind words have a power that the equally kind ones of the rough friends around had not. The brown straw bonnet is raised from the breast, and we perceive that the girl is neither dead nor sleeping. We perceive something more--a pair of the most painfully melancholy, and beautiful violet eyes that we ever looked into, which are languidly uplifted to the farm-lady. With the words, 'I am very tired, ma'am,' the eyes reclose, and we see long black fringes of soft hair rest upon the pale, thin cheek. The ready tear of compassion springs to the matron's eyes, as she stoops still lower to feel the pulse in the wan hand. 'What is the matter with her?' she inquires, turning to the bystanders. 'Tis tiert all out she is, my leddy. We come by say from Watherford to Milford, and thin, yer honour, we come on foot all trough Pembrokeshire, and County Carmarthin, and now she's jist kilt.' 'But what is she going to do? Why do you come away from Ireland at all?' 'Och, my leddy, shure we're starvin' there. And we jist come to luk for the work in the harvest, an' we're goin' to Herefordshire to git it. An' plaase yer honour's glory, she come wid us to this counthry to luk for her mother's relations that's Welsh, my leddy, small blame to thim, seein' her mother married an Irishman, and come to live in our counthry.' 'I will give you a night's lodging, and that is all I can do for you,' says the gentle mistress of the farm.