It chanced that some short time before, one of Joyce's sons, in boarding an outward-bound American ship, had heard of a young countrywoman who, having taken her passage for New York, no sooner found herself at sea--parted, as she deemed it, forever from home and country--than she gave way to the most violent grief; so poignant, indeed, was her sorrow that the captain compassionately offered to relinquish her passage-money if Joyce would take charge of her, and re-land her on the shores of Ireland. The offer was accepted, and the same evening saw her safely deposited on the rocky island of Brannock. Partly in gratitude to her deliverer, partly in the indulgence of a secret wish, she asked leave to remain with them and be their servant; the compact was agreed to, and thus was she there. Theirs was not a life to engender the suspicions and distrusts which are current in the busier walks of men. None asked her a reason for her self-banishment, none inquired whether the cause of her exile was crime or misfortune. They had grown to feel attachment to her for the qualities of her gentle, quiet nature, a mild submissive temper, and a disposition to oblige, that forgot nothing save herself. Her habits had taught her resources and ways which their isolated existence had denied them, and she made herself useful by various arts, which, simple as they were, seemed marvellous to the apprehension of her hosts; and thus, day by day, gaining on their love and esteem, they came at length to regard her with an affection mingled with a sort of homage. Poor Joan Landy--for we have not to explain that it was she--was happy,--happier than ever she had been before. The one great sorrow of her life was, it is true, treasured in her heart; her lost home, her blighted hope, her severed affection--for she actually loved Magennis--were griefs over which she wept many an hour in secret; but there was a sense of duty, a conscious feeling of rectitude, that supported her in her sacrifice, and as she thought of her old grandfather's death-bed, she could say to her heart, “I have been true to my word with him.” The unbroken quiet, the unchanging character of the life she led,--its very duties following a routine that nothing ever disturbed,--gave her ample time for thought; and thought, though tinged with melancholy, has its own store of consolation; and if poor Joan sorrowed, she sorrowed like one who rather deplored the past than desired to re-live it! As time wore on, a dreamy indistinctness seemed to spread itself over the memory of her former life: it appeared little other than a mind-drawn picture. Nothing actual or tangible remained to convince her of its reality. It was only at rare intervals, and in the very clearest weather, the outline of the mountains of the mainland could be seen; and when she did behold them, they brought only some vague recollection to her; and so, too, the memories of her once home came through the haze of distance, dim and indistinct.