‘Why, the nearest one is a woman,’ said Keith, ‘the other one is a man; but I wonder what is the matter with them? They both remain standing on one spot, but they are gesticulating like mad.’ They soon approached the first party they had seen. IT _was_ a woman. She was an elderly old lady, very stout in the beams, and one would have thought, even under ordinary circumstances, she must find it difficult to walk any distance. She appeared to be standing on two lumps of turf, but--they were sticking to her feet. Every step she took increased the size of the lump, until at last she was obliged to stop, she could drag her burden (which, unlike that of Christian, was attached to her feet) along no more. ‘Well, I’m blessed if it is not old Mrs M’Kwaire,’ cried Steve. ‘And who may she be?’ queried Keith. ‘Why, she is Mrs M’Kwaire,’ he replied, laughing. ‘She is an old lady of Dutch extraction, married to an old Irishman, both characters in their way--very comical and amusing as a rule; it is most amusing to set old M’Kwaire’s tongue a-wagging by mentioning _Home Rule_. If you once start him, you may go away for half-an-hour and come back to find him still talking to some imaginary antagonist about Home Rule and the wrongs of Ireland.’ ‘Hillo, Tante, why don’t you ride on the waggon?’ cried out Steve, as they stopped alongside of her. ‘That is what I would like to do,’ she replied, ‘but that foolish Pat would get down to pick up a yoke skey lying in the road, when he remained _stuck_, and, as the oxen would not stop, I, like another fool, got down to help him while the oxen walked on with the waggon to where it is now standing. And now I am sticking between Pat and the waggon; I can’t get to him, he cannot get to me, and neither of us can get to the waggon.’ The young fellows could not help bursting into loud roars of laughter at the ludicrousness of the scene. They halted as near to the old lady as possible, and helped her on to their cart and drove on to where Pat was standing, talking and swearing all the time. ‘Well, old _Stick-in-the-mud_,’ cried Keith, ‘it seems the mountain _won’t_ come to Mahomet, and Mahomet _can’t_ go to the mountain; what does Mahomet intend doing now?’ All laughed at this sally. ‘Begorrah, sor, ye niver would lave a pore old mon ’ere.’ ‘No, I am afraid that would be another wrong to old Oireland. Well, Pat, if Ireland can get out of her troubles as easily as you, I would advise you to get back to her, and stand for the first election of president, king, or emperor, whatever your new constitution would call your chief ruler. I think you stand a good chance.’ ‘Come along, Keith, that is enough for one day, you are getting too humorously clever,’ said Steve. ‘Give us your hand, Pat, and jump up if you can.’ But Pat could not jump. He had to be dragged into the cart, and was thus able to sit down and scrape his feet clean again.