The manner and style of Rose’s visits were different from those of any other who could come to a farmer’s house, or even to an humble cottage, for to the inmates of both were her services equally rendered. Let us suppose, for instance, the whole female part of a farmer’s family assembled of a summer evening about five o’clock, each engaged in some domestic employment: in runs a lad who has been sporting about, breathlessly exclaiming, whilst his eyes are lit up with delight, “Mother! mother! here’s Rose Moan coming down the boreen!” “Get out, avick; no, she’s not.” “Bad cess to me but she is; that I may never stir if she isn’t! Now!” The whole family are instantly at the door to see if it be she, with the exception of the prettiest of them all, Kitty, who sits at her wheel, and immediately begins to croon over an old Irish air which is sadly out of tune; and well do we know, notwithstanding the mellow tones of that sweet voice, why it is so, and also why that youthful cheek in which health and beauty meet, is now the colour of crimson. “_Oh, Rosha, acushla, cead millie failte ghud!_ (Rose, darlin’, a hundred thousand welcomes to you!) Och, musha, what kep you away so long, Rose? Sure you won’t lave us this month o’ Sundays, Rose?” are only a few of the cordial expressions of hospitality and kindness with which she is received. But Kitty, whose cheek but a moment ago was carmine, why is it now pale as the lily? “An’ what news, Rose?” asks one of her sisters; “sure you’ll tell us every thing; won’t you?” “Throth, avillish, _I have no bad news_, any how--an’ as to tellin’ you _all_--Biddy, _lhig dumh_, let me alone. No, I have no bad news, God be praised, _but good news_.” Kitty’s cheek is again crimson, and her lips, ripe and red as cherries, expand with the sweet soft smile of her country, exhibiting a set of teeth for which many a countess would barter thousands, and giving out a breath more delicious than the fragrance of a summer meadow. Oh, no wonder, indeed, that the kind heart of Rose contains in its recesses a message to her as tender as ever was transmitted from man to woman! “An’, Kitty, acushla, where’s the welcome from _you_, that’s my favourite? Now don’t be jealous, childre; sure you all know she is, an’ ever an’ always was.” “If it’s not upon my lips, it’s in my heart, Rose, an’ from that heart you’re welcome!” She rises up and kisses Rose, who gives her one glance of meaning, accompanied by the slightest imaginable smile, and a gentle but significant pressure of the hand, which thrills to her heart and diffuses a sense of ecstacy through her whole spirit. Nothing now remains but the opportunity, which is equally sought for by Rose and her, to hear without interruption the purport of her lover’s communication; and this we leave to lovers to imagine.