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"Sure Miss Mona can," says Biddy, turning to her young mistress, and standing in the doorway in her favorite position,—that is, with her bare arms akimbo, and her head to one side like a magpie. "She's raal clever at dhressin' an' doctherin' an' that.", A strange scene presents itself to their expectant gaze. Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed of no flooring but the bare brown earth that Mother Nature has supplied. To their right is a huge fireplace, where, upon the hearthstone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Near it crouches an old woman with her blue-checked apron thrown above her head, who rocks herself to and fro in silent grief, and with every long-drawn breath—that seems to break from her breast like a stormy wave upon a desert shore—brings her old withered palms together with a gesture indicative of despair., Her face changes. He has made no mention of the treasured gown, has said no little word of praise..