Chapter 21

'What ails you, Sister Erin, that your face

Is, like your mountains, still bedewed with tears?

. . . . . . .

Forgive! forget! lest harsher lips should say,

Like your turf fire, your rancour smoulders long,

And let Oblivion strew Time's ashes o'er your wrong.'

Alfred Austin.

At tea-time, and again after our simple dinner-for Bri