“And do you notice that she and the doctor are beginning to speak more freely of their past acquaintance?” I went on, looking up at Francesca, who had dropped her work in her interest. “It is too amusing! Every hour or two it is: 'Do you remember the day we went to Bunker Hill?' or, 'Do you recall that charming Mrs. Andrews, with whom we used to dine occasionally?' or, 'What has become of your cousin Samuel?' and, 'Is your uncle Thomas yet living?'... The other day, at tea, she asked, 'Do you still take three lumps, Dr. La Touche? You had always a sweet tooth, I remember.'... Then they ring the changes in this way: 'You were always fond of grey, Miss Peabody.' 'You had a great fancy for Moore, in the old days, Miss Peabody: have you outgrown him, or does the 'Anacreontic little chap,' as Father Prout called him, still appeal to you?'... 'You used to admire Boyle O'Reilly, Dr. La Touche. Would you like to see some of his letters?'... 'Aren't these magnificent rhododendrons, Dr. La Touche,--even though they are magenta, the colour you specially dislike?' And so on. Did you chance to look at either of them last evening, Francesca, when I sang 'Let Erin remember the days of old'?” “No; I was thinking of something else. I don't know what there is about your singing, Penny love, that always makes me think of the past and dream of the future. Which verse do you mean?” And, still painting, I hummed:-- “'On Lough Neagh's banks, as the fisherman strays, When the cool, calm eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days Beneath the waters shining. . . . . . . Thus shall memory oft, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over, And, sighing, look thro' the waves of Time, For the long-faded glories they cover.' “That is what our two dear middle-aged lovers are constantly doing now,--looking at the round towers of other days, as they bend over memory's crystal pool and see them reflected there. It is because he fears that the glories are over and gone that Dr. Gerald is troubled. Some day he will realise that he need not live on reflections, and he will seek realities.” “I hope so,” said Francesca philosophically, as she folded her work; “but sometimes these people who go mooning about, and looking through the waves of Time, tumble in and are drowned.” Chapter XXIX. Aunt David's garden. 'O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind, Blow through me, blow! Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind From long ago.' John Todhunter. No one ever had a better opportunity than we, of breathing in, so far as a stranger and a foreigner may, the old Celtic atmosphere, and of reliving the misty years of legend before the dawn of history; when 'Long, long ago, beyond the space Of twice two hundred years, In Erin old there lived a race Taller than Roman spears.'