It was in the year 1847 myself and wife were behind the house cutting hay. There was no mowing-machine those days; no, not even a scythe could be used because of the stumps, and we were picking the locks of hay out atween the stones and stumps with our hooks. It was a hot day and we had been at work since sunrise, so our backs were tired enough, but we could not rest, for there was much to do and we had no help beside ourselves. We were working hard and fast, when a voice came ahint us that made us start. “Uncle, wanna you look roun at me?” There stood a girl, with a bundle in her right hand. By her figure you might say she was 17 or thereabout; by her face she was an old woman, for the bones were sticking out of the tight drawn skin and her skin was a deadly grey, with black streaks above and below the eyes. My first thought was the colleen was demented. “God save you kindly,” says I, “but why do you name me uncle?” “I am your brother’s child.” You might have knocked me down with a feather, I was so astonished. “What! me brother Jerry?” “That same,” answers she in a wake voice. “Where is he?” shouts I, throwing down my hook. “Lade me to him. Niver a line did he send to tell us he was laving Ireland, but welkim he and his as the flowers in May to the best I have.” The girl didn’t stir; she seemed numbed and dead like and answered in her hollow voice, “He’s dead thim three weeks.” “God save us all,” I shouted, “you are mad my colleen, and ye’re mind’s awandering. My brother Jerry is in Ireland with his wife and the childer, and ye’re mistaen when you call me uncle.” “No, no,” she says to me, “ye’re my own uncle for I axed at the house next to you. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters are wid the saints in glory,” and wid that she lifted her eyes and crosses herself. “When and where?” I shouted in desperation. “They died ov the ship favor, part are buried in the say and part at the favor sheds.” With those words the truth of all she said burst on me and I staggered, for my head swam, and I had to throw myself down on the meadow, but my wife rushed past and clasped the poor child in her arms, “I’ll be mother to you, and, God help us, it won’t be on our account if the tear o’ sorrow come again to your eye.” The poor thing didn’t respond as you might expect, but sank on my wife’s bosom and looked about with that stony stare of hers. My wife’s hot tears were raining on her face, when she whispered, “Wad ye give me a bite to eat?” Then we saw it all. The girl was starving. I caught her up in my arms--she was no heavier than many a baby--a bag of bones--and I ran with her to the house, crying to my wife to hurry and get something ready. Had ye seen her look at the food as my wife brought it out of the cellar, with the eye of a wild beast, you would have shivered. “Draw in,” says I, “it’s coorse, but it is the best we have, an there’s plenty av it.” “Is the mate for me?” she asks doubtful like. “Surely,” says I.