There are many parts of Ireland where one could not find a habitable house to rent, but in this locality they are numerous enough to make it possible to choose. We had driven over perhaps twenty square miles of country, with the view of selecting the most delectable spot that could be found, without going too far from Rosnaree. The chief trouble was that we always desired every dwelling that we saw. I tell you this with a view of lessening the shock when I confess that, before we came to the Old Hall where we are now settled for a month, and which was Salemina's choice, Francesca and I took two different houses, and lived in them for seven days, each in solitary splendour, like the Prince of Coolavin. It was not difficult to agree upon the district, we were of one mind there: the moment that we passed the town and drove along the flowery way that leads to Devorgilla, we knew that it was the road of destiny. The whitethorn is very late this year, and we found ourselves in the full glory of it. It is beautiful in all its stages, from the time when it first opens its buds, to the season when 'every spray is white with may, and blooms the eglantine.' There is no hint of green leaf visible then, and every tree is 'as white as snow of one night.' This is the Gaelic comparison, and the first snow seems especially white and dazzling, I suppose, when one sees it in the morning where were green fields the night before. The sloe, which is the blackthorn, comes still earlier and has fewer leaves. That is the tree of the old English song:-- 'From the white-blossomed sloe My dear Chloe requested A sprig her fair breast to adorn. “No, by Heav'ns!” I exclaimed, “may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!”'