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The Green Bag

round her mouth. Happier far if she had died thus, poor and alone, rather than lived to earn the price of blood! One winter evening she sat alone by her fire of dry sticks, and crouched over the feeble blaze. Outside the dark rack sailed across the sky, the trees swayed their heavy branches with a dismal creak, gusty showers had fallen all day, soddening the roads and grass, now the wind was rising, portending ominously a storm, and driving the smoke back into the blackened kitchen, which with "the room," as the Irish peasants call it, composed her dwelling. Feeble jets of light danced on her bent head or shone on the brown dresser behind, with its scanty store of plates and "noggins," or wooden drinking vessels, with a couple of stools, a chair, and a broken table, the sole furniture. The storm grew louder, the rain came swishing against the window with every gust, and its heavy monotonous patter was heard in the lull of the blast. It found its way through weak places in the thatch, and dripped slowly on the earthen floor, filling the uneven places with pools of water. A half-starved black cat tubbed against its mistress's knees. It was past nine when a loud knock was heard at the door. The woman started violently and listened, it was repeated. Lifting the one candle the house afforded, she advanced and asked who was there. "A stranger seeking shelter," replied a strange voice, and opening the door she saw a tall man with a long black flowing beard, holding the bridle of a powerful horse; he strode into the cottage, the wet gleaming on his clothes and the coat of the animal. "A terrible night," he said, in hearty tones. "They told me I'd reach Ros common before night, but my horse cast a shoe, and it took so long a time

to get it replaced that this confounded storm overtook me. I am wet to the skin, and if you can give me a bed and some supper, I will stay here—if you have no objection, of course." "'Tis not a night for a dog to be out, let alone a Christian, sir; but this is a poor place for the likes of yer honor," said Betty, who had been eyeing the fine cloth of the gentleman's clothes, his splendid fur cloak, and other signs of wealth. "Oh, I'm contented," he said, his smile disclosing the whitest and most regular teeth. "I've put up with worse in my time," and he proceeded to fasten the horse, while Betty barred the door against the intrusive blast. She hastened to throw more sticks on the fire, drew a seat to the blaze, took the gentleman's heavy coat from him, and made him sit down. He placed the rushlight in its queer "arm-and-socket" candlestick, to one side, saying it pained his eyes, and stretching out his feet to the fire, asked, "Could you give me anything to eat?" "No! there is nothing in the house— and no money, neither," she added, with a kind of defiance. The stranger looked sadly and earnestly at her—perhaps the idea of any one wanting money seemed strange to a rich man,—his lips moved as if he were about to speak, but changing his mind he drew out a heavy purse, and laid a gold piece on the table. "Buy something with this, then," he said, "I will pay you well tomorrow for your trouble." She took it in silence, wrapped a dark cloak about her and passed out into the wild night, cautioning her guest to bar the door. In less than half an hour she tapped for readmittance, and entered laden with bread, meat, eggs and spirits, not forgetting a bundle of hay upon her