" While he was thus musing, he fancied he heard the lock tried. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
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