"A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer; Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear. There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand; And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sand On the fair hills of holy Ireland! "Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground; The butter and the cream do wondrously abound; The cresses on the water, and the sorrels are at hand; And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland: And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song in the forest grand. On the fair hills of holy Ireland!" The song made a charming let-down from the loftier tension; and some one said that it was just the sweet lament for the good time past, suitable for a race which like the Irish "had seen better days." "But," said Miss Alida, "you would never find an old Dutch or Norse song so destitute of hope or self-reliance. Their spirit is one that does not look back to the dead and gone; or even forward for some expected Helper. They sing the present, and the best possible present. That is the noblest kind of song, and there will be hope for Ireland when she sings no longer about the _having been_, but determines _to be_." However, in spite of all diversions, Browning had the evening; for no one could escape from his influence. And all the way home Harry spoke of Miss Alida's minister, and of the poem he had quoted from. He was longing to say, "How strangely the experience of the youth in the poem fitted into Hannah Young's fear that Christ would go away and not forgive her, until the moment of pardon revealed Him through the dread disguise a God of mercy and forgiveness!" He wished also to speak for himself, but it was very difficult to do. In the first place, Adriana was tremblingly afraid of explanations. She passed from one person to another, and one subject to another with so much haste and interest that it was finally clear to Harry she did not wish him to allude to the great event of the day. But his heart was full of love and sorrow, and as he walked by her side from the carriage to the drawing-room he came to a decision. Adriana stood a moment before the fire, and there Harry unclasped her cloak, drew her head towards him, and kissed her fondly. "Yanna!" he whispered, "Yanna, truest and best of wives! I love you, and I love only you! I have wandered often, but never have I been happy away from you. Forgive me once more. The things I have heard to-day I shall never forget. Never will I be less worthy of your love than I am at this hour; never again!"