car.

The weeks I spent in England intensified the Irish situation. The Government having affirmed that law and order positively must be re-established, more troops were drafted into the country, and the roads were systematically patrolled. Loyalists were forbidden to keep firearms in their houses; they were warned to "exercise extreme vigilance and caution" in their daily occupations. Curfew regulations were instituted throughout the greater part of Munster; but martial law, which alone could have dealt effectively with the rebels, was not proclaimed. And the campaign of murder and arson continued unabated.

Alighting at the junction on my return, I found the station entrance watched by armed Sinn Feiners, while just across the road a rebel flag flaunted itself from the blackened ruins of the police barracks.

I stowed myself and my luggage upon a shaky old jarvey car, which was anything but an ideal conveyance for a ten-mile drive, and jolted away from the station, inwardly imprecating a Government whose fatuous dealings with rebellion had rendered it inexpedient

The sordid little town seemed empty and quiet. Very few children were playing in the street, and none of the usual groups of dishevelled gossipers were gathered round the doorways. Cocks and hens and pigs, wandering at their pleasure in and out of the houses, seemed to have the place to themselves.

From its elevated position at the end of a sloping grassy square the imposing new Roman Catholic Chapel dominated the whole place. Grey and white pigeons wheeled round the steeple. The bell tolled sonorously a few times. Before the last vibration had died away there came a burst of shrill music from the square. It was an unfamiliar tune played triumphantly on Irish pipes. All music has a wonderful power of creating vivid mental pictures, and Irish pipes excel in the art of weird suggestion.

For a moment, while the piper was still out of sight behind the intervening houses, I seemed to have a vision of some dauntless unearthly leader advancing amid the exultant acclamations of his followers.

Then, as we turned the corner, the car-horse shied violently at lently at a burst of flame which shot up with startling suddenness in the middle of the square.

From his insecure seat on my luggage the driver tried to steady him without success;

All the townspeople were assembled in the square watching an immense bonfire burning with noisy spurts and wickedlooking darting flames, and filling the air with a choking acrid smell.

Sinn Fein volunteers moved ostentatiously to and fro making a show of keeping order, though, indeed, the people seemed quiet enough. Just a few shouted and gesticulated excitedly round the fire; many faces, however, showed unmistakable disapproval, and furtive glances of commiseration were directed towards a little group standing apart from the crowd upon the pavement.

Two women in cheap-looking new mourning stared, quietly crying, at the fire. The man who accompanied them seemed rigid from some strong emotion, and just behind, an older woman, with a crape bonnet incongruously surmounting her peasant's cloak and shawl, rocked herself and wailed aloud.

I turned to the car-driver for enlightenment. He replied in a matter-of-fact voice

There was a policeman shot dead ere yestherday. They went to bury him now, and the boys cot the hearse

"Traitor, indeed!" I cried, horrified; "traitors themselves, not only to Ireland, but to civilisation."

The piper at the horse's head looked up. I encountered the glance of dark-grey eyes lit by a sombre fire, which was no mere reflection of the flames of the burning hearse.

""Tis the English Governmint is the thraitor to civilisation," he said with deep conviction.

He slipped away through the crowd, reappearing with his pipes near the fire, where he called for "three cheers for the Republic, and down with all representatives of the brutal foreign usurper."

"Sure Teige O'Leary is as grand for talk as he is for music," observed the driver admiringly. "He have a tongue that'd lash a dead horse over a Limerick ditch. And he only three weeks out of hospital after the hungrystrike! More power to him, the fine brave patriot!"

"Drive on," I ordered curtly.

My self-control and forbearance would stand no more. Nor could I trust myself to glance again at the little group of mourners, knowing that I could not do anything to help them.

But the thought of them pursued me miserably throughout the homeward drive.

Next morning I wandered round the garden ruefully inspecting the fruit-trees, which presented a most lamentable appearance.

A recent gale laden with salt from the Atlantic had burned and seared both leaves and blossoms. In the whole garden not even a currant-bush had escaped.

The spring of 1920 was the most disastrous on record. Nature and Sinn Fein seemed to vie with each other in wanton and deliberate destruction.

Bat Cronin appeared on the long path between the espaliers. His observant gaze wandered to and fro over the blighted trees.

"Thank God for the potatoes," was his first remark. Voice and manner irresistibly suggested a drowning man clutching at straws.

He had called, he explained, to welcome me home, and he further expressed a wish to

take on a job of work."

With the air of one conferring a favour, he said, "I'm thinking 'twould be as well for me to be thraining the peas for ye, ma'am, the way they'll not get too bold and wild in themselves."

It is always the apostles of freedom who forge the most tyrannical chains.

The tale that Cronin presently related filled me with concern.

Mike Dinneen had been discharged from hospital, only to find that his post in the telegraph office was no longer open to him.

In addition to this misfortune, Sinn Fein, to punish him for having worked during the general strike, arranged that he should be boycotted. The local shopkeepers, though secretly sympathising with him, dared not disobey Sinn Fein. Starvation seemed inevitable.

""Tis as likely as not that low-down spalpeen Teige O'Leary that bethrayed them," said Cronin in tones of disgust. 'Indeed, the Governmint had a right to let that one die! Three weeks back he was home from the hungry-strike with the uncle he has at the little rock of the dancing. 'Tis where they'd have jigs and reels once, and in the latther days 'tis there maybe the boys'd be drilling. Teige seen Bridgie Moylan go carrying baskets to Dinneen's cottage, and what did he do at all, only tell the officer' of his area. Your honour knows the officer,' ma'am? Sure he was hanging about the village the last holiday of the hungry-strike. A grand blagyard with the appairance of a gintleman, and a fine Yankee accent. The officer' came to the little rock of the dancing. He was two days staying in old O'Leary's cottage seeking for what he could see. And the neighbours in Carrigarinka wouldn't so much as say good morning to each other, they were that in dread of him! 'Tis said he wanted to get married to

Bridgie Moylan; but she always had a wish for real soldiers, and wouldn't be looking at the likes of him. She was taking a couple of loaves to Dinneen one day, and the Sinn Feiners cot her and set her agin the fence in the baun field and cut the hair off her. Ye'd have filled a corn-sack with the grand black hair she had! She'd be keeping the shawl on her head now like Mrs Moylan herself or anny old woman, and the two of them is in dread to send food to Dinneen."

After this Cronin, true to his promise, had bravely given what help he could. Both to avoid observation, and because the distance from his cottage to Dinneen's was considerable, a half-way meetingplace was arranged in an unfrequented glen. Thither Cronin daily conveyed what food he could spare, but it would have been unsafe noticeably to exceed his usual purchases, so Dinneen's ration was necessarily small.

I felt it was indeed time he received more substantial help.

In the evening I packed a basket of food and set off for the glen. The old farmer accompanied me. It was by his advice that I took this course instead of going direct to Dinneen's cottage. Cronin had said

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Sure 'tis yourself 'd have a great chance to starve, ma'am, if Teige O'Leary'd catch a sight of ye! Faith, he'd have ye boycotted and no throuble at all about it!"

And I realised he was probably right.

It was a fine but gusty evening late in May. The sun shone brilliantly. In the grass-grown bohereen leading over the crest of the hill the wind scattered hawthorn petals and furzeblossoms till the air seemed full of mingled snow and fire. Here and there an eddy had whirled the blossoms into lines of white and yellow on the vivid green grass.

"The Sinn Fein colours, ma'am!" Bat Cronin said in an awestruck voice. "God help us! is the whole world itself gone Sinn Fein?"

Its

We came round an angle of rocky cliff into the sudden calm of the little glen. sheltered banks were sprinkled with flowers white, pale mauve, and gold gold shining through the rain-like growth of young grass. A brown and silver stream led downwards to a tranquil pool. Here a tall horse-chestnut tree stood full in the evening sunshine. The salt gales from the sea must have touched this tree just when its leaves were unfolding, for the upper branches hung in broken disorder, the remnants of leaves were shrivelled and black. But the creamy blossoms had burst out after the gale had passed. They stood erect and fresh and luminous on the blasted discoloured branches, giving a strange impression of unassailable serenity. They made me think of altar candles burning in a shell-shattered church.

among scattered rocks halfhidden by tall ferns. Michael Dinneen was sitting on a low rock where the thorn-trees meeting overhead formed a kind of leafy cavern. I saw that he was very thin. The light filtering through the leaves intensified the pallor of his face. His left sleeve was pinned to his coat pocket. At first sight he appeared a shattered man.

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When he looked up, however, his expression showed no distress. His eyes were smiling and almost gay. It was evident that the cheerful imperturbable spirit which endured the horrors of war had not been broken by the turmoil of peace. 'Tis the hairo that I'm after telling ye about, ma'am," said Cronin, thrusting forward. Look at him, the brave fellow ! He always was a strong boy and a healthy boy, and now, glory be to God! his constitootion is completely broken down!

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Having effected this introduction, he withdrew through the thorn bushes. He had already shown considerable courage and independence in befriending the boycotted exsoldier. There was no immediate need for him to incur further risk.

A similar thought must have come to Dinneen, for he commented on the old man's kindness, adding, "They'll hardly touch him though, ma'am. The republicans don't care about the old men. It's the young lot they want to draw