In the afternoon she returned bringing a suit of bottle-green corduroy with shining brass buttons, much too large for him. The trousers were so stiff that he could hardly sit down in them, and he hated the smell of corduroy. His own warm woolen garments had been exchanged for these others, and for a horse cover, which became his coverlet by night. Beneath it he slept more comfortably than before. At an early hour the following morning, while Hugh was still asleep, they reached another large town, and, as usual, the cart was drawn up at an inn, where the travellers passed the day. While Welsh was out in the town, and the aunt dozing by the fire, Hugh tried to tell the innkeeper the story of his wrongs, but neither could understand the other, owing to the man's brogue. The child's earnestness drew a little crowd around him, however, and he was just beginning to make himself understood, when his uncle returned suddenly and whisked him off to the cart to spend the long afternoon, until they resumed their journey at nightfall. Angry words passed between the innkeeper and his uncle, but no deliverance came. After another miserable night they arrived at Drogheda on the forenoon of the following day. Here they made a short pause, but he was not permitted to descend from the cart, nor communicate with any stranger. The party arrived at Welsh's home, on the banks of the Boyne, late in the afternoon. Such is the story of Hugh Brontë's journey to Welsh's house, as first told me by the Reverend William McAllister, and subsequently confirmed by four independent narrators. I have given a mere outline of the boy's experience on that dreadful journey, without attempting to reproduce Hugh Brontë's style. As told by the man in after years, it never failed to hold his listeners spell-bound. The stunted trees on the wind-swept mountains, the ghostly shadows on the moon-bleached plains, the desolate bogs on every side, the interminable stretches of road leading over narrow bridges and through shallow fords, the heavens on fire with stars, and the autumn stricken into gold by the setting sun, all lent color and reality to Hugh Brontë's eloquence. Mr. McAllister had heard most of the orators of his time, O'Connell and Chalmers and Cook, but no man ever roused and thrilled him by his dramatic power as did Hugh Brontë. Welsh Brontë traveled at night partly for economy, but more especially that little Hugh should see no landmark, by which his footsteps might ever be guided home. Do the incidents of the journey give us any clue to discover the region where Hugh Brontë lived? They spent four whole nights on the road, and traversed a distance from one hundred to one hundred and twenty miles.