around Gorteen, onwards from her weddingday through life. Snowdrop Jane. Jane the Snowdrop. So people used to call her, and still do call; speaking soberly and ever kindly.

TH

CHAPTER VIII

HE honeymoon was spent at Hillside. Some day, when affairs were settled, when work had lightened and the days grown long, Martin was to take Jane out into the world for a week in Dublin, or a fortnight at the seaside; but just now such delights must lie in wait. Not indeed that Jane cared, or Martin, not that home was the worst place in the world or fuller happiness to be found away from it; not that anything mattered, for hardly had Martin bidden Jane welcome to her new home and his mother kissed her in the hall, when the heavens opened and there was great rain. All those glad spring days were blotted out behind mist and gloom. Through long days it poured unweariedly, so that the mountain was hidden away and the sky, nor had the nights any stars within them. Through a whole week Jane never crossed the threshold; not even on Sunday to church or

preaching, where friends sat eager for sight of her blushes and longing for sight of her new dress. Hannah and Maria came to see her through murk and mud; Hugh stamped in with a streaming hat; Martin drove off gaily of mornings, this way towards Bunn or that towards Lismahee in search of creditors, and came home soaked: it was just as though the deluge had come between the new life and the old, cut them apart and imprisoned Jane within the pleasant bounds of home.

The

world was pushed back. Old times and things seemed far away. Everywhere and always were the new delightful things of her new life.

They were indeed delightful and good, these new things; the change from old to new was wonderful. Yesterday she had been a slave, to-day she was free; there stood Jane Fallon, a toil-worn nobody, here sat Jane Hynes, mistress of Hillside, wife of Martin. Then was hard, comfortless, cheerless; now was warm, pleasant, easy, almost too good to endure. She was very happy. From morning to night her face shone. Rising she prayed God that to-day might be as yesterday; lying down she thanked God for His bounty and

prayed that to-morrow might be as to-day. Everything was so new and strange. Martin was kindness and love itself; his mother a lesson in goodness. How pleasant to hear Mary call her Mistress, to see James come shambling to do her bidding, to sit at head of the table pouring tea into real china, to take lessons from the Mother in the art of housewifery, to go softly from room to room, all wonder and admiration, to stand on her own hearth, sit by her own work-basket, to receive Maria in her own parlour and show Hannah her own wardrobe, to be Jane Hynes, Martin's wife, mistress of Hillside. She felt glad as a child in the midst of new toys, proud as a child stepping decked in a new dress. Everything was so fresh and delightful; every one so very good. The change was great. In a day she had found another world. Back there, beyond the rain, was Jane Fallon, toiling in quilted petticoat and linsey bodice, eating silently by a bare table, knitting soberly by an untidy hearth, resting in a little room below the thatch; here, shut in from cold and wet, was Jane Hynes, moving from room to room in a flowing dress, rings on her finger, a brooch

at her throat, sitting by well-spread tables with Martin laughing before her and the Mother smiling at her side, resting when she liked, doing what she would, listening to the soft fall of the rain at last as she lay in a great room that looked upon the lawn. Had she ever lived till now? Had youth come back to her within a single day? Was she the same woman, the Jane that had wept so much, prayed so earnestly for deliverance? Ah, she had been headstrong and sinful. God knew best. Life was just beginning. Away before her stretched long years of happiness, long full years, bright summers, cosy winters, Martin and she going blessedly through them, together always and hand in hand. . .

Ah, that it might be so, thought Jane, her old self reasserting itself as she sat one night by the parlour fire, with Martin reading near the lamp and the Mother knitting in a corner; that God might grant it to be always so. Even if trouble came, even if days fell dark, might they still keep constant upon the long path. All was pleasant going now, sunshine upon it everywhere; but maybe rough places were in front, stones and pits and thorns. She must