The race of human beings who can neither read nor write are fast vanishing from the face of the civilized earth. They used, however, to abound in great numbers in old Ireland, and, strange as it may seem, these so-called uneducated people have proved themselves to be some of the shrewdest in the world.

For, never reading the books of men, they are always perusing the greater book of nature. Unacquainted with the art of writing, they trust absolutely to their memories. The observation, therefore, of the Irish peasant can scarcely be credited by those who have never come across him.

Norah had made up her mind that Janet should not be released from the hiding-place to which she and Pat had spirited her until she made full confession of her own part in making Bridget unhappy. It is true Norah had never heard the tale, but she seemed to know as much about it as if she had been in everybody's confidence, and had even joined the Fancy Fair Committee, and sat in Mrs. Freeman's schoolroom when Bridget, under Janet's directions, cribbed her lessons.

If Bridget herself, however, wished Janet to be set free, there was no help for it.

"You wait here, Miss Biddy," she said; "you needn't go for Miss Janet May. I'll bring her to you in an hour at the farthest."

"Very well, Norah," said Bridget, "I'll wait for you here."

She sat down as she spoke, under the shelter of a large birch tree, and, leaning her head against its silver stem, fell into a heavy sleep.

She dreamt in her sleep, and these dreams were so disquieting that she could not help crying out and moaning heavily. She opened her eyes at last to see her old father standing by her.

For a moment she could not remember where she was, nor what had happened. The smile which always filled her eyes when she looked at her dearly loved father came into them now; a gay word banished the sorrowful lines from round her lips, and, with a little laugh, she rose to her feet.

"How ridiculous of me to have gone to sleep in the wood," she exclaimed.

Then memory came back. She flushed first, and then turned deadly pale.

"You are in trouble, alanna," said Squire O'Hara. "I know that by the look you wore in your sleep; I never saw my colleen wear a face so full of sorrow before. There's something on your mind, acushla, and you are afraid to tell your father. Maybe I frightened you a bit in the parlor just now; if so, my heart's core, you must forgive me. I was taken aback and put out, and we O'Haras are celebrated for our hasty tempers. I am not angry now, however: my anger has passed like a morning cloud. You tell me all that is vexing you, Biddy. Put your arms round me, and whisper your trouble in my ears, my own colleen."

"And why should a beautiful young lady like that have any throuble," exclaimed another voice.

The squire and Bridget both started and turned round. Janet May and Norah were coming up the little path, and even now stood by their sides.

"Here's the young Englisher lady," said Norah. "She's none the worse for having spent one night with the Irish folk, and there's no throuble, now that she has come back; is there, Miss Biddy?"

For one instant Bridget was silent.

Janet came up to her and spoke in a gentle, cheerful tone. "I am so glad to be back with you, dear," she said. "I dare say you and the squire were uneasy about me. Well, I had an adventure, and am none the worse. I'll tell you all about it presently. Norah has something, also, to say for herself; but she, too, will speak presently. Now I have one request to make of the squire."

"What is that, my dear?" asked Dennis O'Hara.

"It is that no one shall be punished on my account," said Janet, in her sweet, low tones. "There was just a little bit of a practical joke played on me. You Irish are celebrated for practical jokes, are you not? I came to no harm, and if I don't wish anyone to be punished, I suppose my wishes are worth considering, as I was the only one who suffered."

"You are by no means the only one who suffered, Miss May," said the squire. "Look at Biddy, there. Why is her face so pale, and why are her eyes so heavy? And as to practical jokes, I never heard that it was the way of the Irish gentry to practice them upon their visitors. My dear young lady, I appreciate your kind and generous spirit. It does my old heart good to see you here safe and unharmed, but you must allow me to deal with this matter in my own way. I am not thinking of it at present, however. I want to have a word with my daughter Biddy. Will you go into the house, Miss May? Biddy and I will follow you presently."

"No, Janet, stay here," said Bridget suddenly.

She threw up her head with something of the free action of a young race horse, tossed her curly hair back from her broad brow, and looked first at Janet and then at the squire.

There was something in the expression of her eyes which caused Janet, as she afterward expressed it, "to shake in her shoes."

"Norah," continued Bridget, "you must stay here too. Now, father, I will tell you something. I will tell you why your Biddy can never, never again be the old Bridget you used to know and to love."

"Oh, don't," interrupted Janet. "See how hysterical you are, Bridget. Don't you think, squire——"

"Hush!" thundered the squire. "Let the colleen speak."

"Father," continued Bridget, "I am a very unhappy girl. I have behaved badly. I have been wicked; I have been dishonorable and—and deceitful."

"No, no, I don't believe that," said the squire. "Whatever you are, you are not deceitful." Once again his face turned white, and an angry light leaped out of his eyes.

"It is true," continued Bridget, "and—and she tempted me—she, Janet May. I never met anyone like her before. She tempted me; I don't know with what motive. It isn't right to tell tales of a visitor; but I—I can't bear things any longer, and I have got so confused in my mind that I don't know what is right and what is wrong. I don't wish to excuse myself, but I do not think I'd have done the dreadful things but for her. I wouldn't have done them, because they never would have occurred to me. Perhaps that is because I am not clever enough. I don't want to excuse myself, but she tempted me to do wrong, and I did wrong, frightfully wrong, and I have been, oh, so miserable! And Norah here—poor Norah—she guessed at my trouble, and she thought she'd punish Janet. That's why Janet was away last night. It was very wrong of Norah, too, but she did it out of love to me. Oh, father, how miserable I am! Why did you send me to that English school? I can never, never, never again be your old Biddy; never again, father, never as long as I live."

Here poor Bridget burst into such convulsive weeping that her words became inaudible.

Suddenly she felt a pair of arms round her neck, and, looking up, her lips touched her father's cheek.

"Let me go on," she said; "let me get it over."

"Not until you are better, colleen. There is not the least hurry. Come down and sit with me in the bower near the Holy Well. We shall have it all to ourselves."

"But the others," said Bridget—"Janet and Norah?"

"I sent them away. Why should they hear what one O'Hara has to say to the other?"