"Ireland is very beautiful," I replied. Her face flushed and her eye lighted as she nodded two or three times, but did not speak. It was as though some one very dear to her had been praised. "I was told once," she said, "that streets in America are paved with gold. But—perhaps it isn't true." She said the last words wistfully, as though reluctant to part with an illusion. "And I suppose," she went on, "there are no trees there with golden leaves nor birds with silver wings?" "No," I said; "there are no streets paved with gold, and no golden trees nor birds with silver wings. But there are many beautiful things—glorious mountains, vast forests, broad rivers, splendid cities." [Pg 27] [Pg 27] "I should like to hear of them some time," she said, "if you will be kind enough to tell me." "Oh, I shall tell you anything you want to hear," I replied; "for, as we agreed to be friends, one friend must try to give pleasure to another." "Yes, that is true," she assented; "and because of that I will show you my castle, though I don't like showing it to strangers." I looked at her with an interest which was enhanced by the story I had heard that morning—pathetic, romantic, and altogether unusual. "You have always lived there?" I asked. "No," she said, briefly. "I remember to have lived at another place, but that is very long ago and does not matter." It was evident that she did not wish to continue the subject. "I shall have to leave you," she said, all at once; "for, listen! I hear the tinkle of a bell, and I am afraid that our cow has got out." "Do you take care of the cow?" I asked involuntarily; for the circumstance somehow seemed surprising and out of keeping with the child's appearance. "Oh, Moira does generally!" she replied carelessly. "She, you know, is our little maid-of-all-work. Sometimes I do myself, though; for I love poor Cusha, and I like to pat her silky back and play with her long ears. She hasn't any horns. But she wouldn't hurt me if she had; for, you see, she knows me, and puts down
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