She had scarcely done speaking, when in bounced a sprightly girl about fourteen years of age, and throwing her arms about his neck, ‘You are welcome back, Eugene,’ said she, ‘we’ve been pining the life out of us since you left home; but you are going to stay now, are you not?’ The elder girl now came in, and advancing without any affected reserve, shook my proffered hand warmly, and welcomed me as the friend of her brother. The Irish infuse their soul and spirit into every thing they do, and nothing can be warmer than their welcome; they set your mind at ease in a moment, and convince you so strongly that they are in earnest in their professions, that you feel yourself like one of themselves, before you are half-an-hour in their company. After we had got some refreshment, we were joined by the family, who had now completed the labours of the day, and I had an opportunity of observing the character of each. Mrs M’Carthy might then be about forty years of age: she was still a fine-looking woman, although the traces of time and care were beginning to show themselves in her countenance—the rose had fled her cheek; but there was an eloquent expression in her eye at once mild and commanding, that kept pace with the varied emotions of her soul, and a dignity in her manner which bespoke a mind conscious of its own powers. Catherine was a Hebe blushing with health and spirit, sporting in the morning beam of life, without a thought or care to disturb her happy frame of mind. But Mary had more of the collected sedateness of womanhood in her manner: she might then be about one or two and twenty; her person in height was above the middle size, but exquisitely formed; and her glossy black hair fell in natural ringlets about a face, which, although it could not be called regularly beautiful, had so much soul in it, that even at first sight you could not behold it with indifference; but when her dark eyes were lighted up with feeling, whether ‘shining through sorrow’s stream,’ or flashing with enthusiasm, the effect was alike irresistible,—and she was an enthusiast in every thing belonging to Ireland. She prided herself on the national character, vindicated its weaknesses and follies, and dropped a tear o’er its misery. ‘The poor Irish are called degraded and wicked,’ said she, ‘by those who exert all their influence to make them so; but relax the iron grasp that holds them to the earth, let them be instructed, and you will see what they will become. Where they have had an opportunity, have they not signalized themselves in every department? Where will you find poets, orators, warriors, and statesmen like them?’ ‘My sister is an enthusiast in every thing Irish,’ said Eugene; ‘but after all there are exceptions to her rule,—we have had Irish statesmen who betrayed their country, Irish warriors who were no heroes, and poets who never drank of the Castalian fount.’