Bridget was the eldest, and she was only twelve. Then there was Grace, and Elsie, and little Jinny, the baby, all to be cared for. Bridget was sent to her uncle’s at Glasgow town, and the grandmother of Grace Kerevan gave the shelter of her poor roof to the rest of them. Widow Kerevan opened a little shop in her grandmother’s front room, and did “bits of work for the people all around Coleraine,” as Bridget expressed it. A year after the kind, loving father’s death, home came Bridget from Glasgow town. Her uncle, the rich distiller, was enraged at her, for she had told his wife she had rather starve in Ireland than go to the meeting-house all day Sunday, and sit straight up at her sewing and knitting the rest of the week. Poor girl! the strict, rigid habits of her uncle’s thrifty Scotch wife had driven her almost frantic. She, who had roamed at will, over hill and glen, and had never been bound down to any duty. The domestic affairs of her own home had always been soon dispensed with, and she had spent most of her time in rambling through the forest, or by the stream-side, or playing with Gracey, Elsie, and the baby, chasing their shadows on the grassy hill-side; then how could she bear the strait-laced notions and rules of her notable Scotch aunt? Not at all, and she told her so; and they sent her home to the starvation her aunt had often taunted her with, holding it in perspective, when she would be rebellious. The mother, grandmother, and children crowded around her. Grace Kerevan held her child, from whom she had been so long parted, close to her bosom, and sobbed with joy. “And so,” said the old grandmother, “the ‘Scotch _quean_,’ as poor Dermot used to say, told ye we starved here? Never mind, darlint, ye shall always have a p’raty, even if we all do without.” Poor Bridget worked early and late, for the farmers’ wives, but she only made a “small thrifle,” as she said, and sometimes they were so poor that they had scarcely a potato apiece in the house. “And did you ever wish yourself back in Glasgow town, Bridget?” I inquired. “Niver, ma’am,” was the girl’s energetic answer; and I do not believe she ever did, for the genial light of home-love shone in her poor, Irish home, for which her little affectionate heart had pined, under the wealthier but cold roof of her uncle. “Thin I came to Ameriky.” “But, Bridget, how came you to think of America?”