San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1891-02-17

| SiCS IL, anu pOllb out WIFI liiuo W p''coVi'
by the few quaint marks and tokens th'
link it to a by-gone age.
There is nave, broad and deep, comprit
ing more than a third of the whole builC
ing, with its old broken stone pavement
and high up, carven upon one of its walls
the head of St. Faughnan, its patron saint
"a hideouS saint indeed, if he resembles
that ancient carving. How often have
gazed upon his unlovely visage, and won
dered in my childish fashion why the grace
that comes from so divine an origin had no
| the power TO render his servant race mort
| beautiful
The village itself stands upon high nil
| the ocean lies at its feet From Moyhe
| House one can see the simmer OF the great
Atlantic as it dances beneath the sunoeamS
| or Iashes itself into furious foam under the
| tonch of the north wind. The cOaSt-guard
station. too stands out, brilliant in its white
wash. a cleaning spot upon the landscape.
Monica. looking down from her height,
takes in all the beauties of the landscape
that surround her, and lets the music of the
melancholy ocean sink into her very soul.
Then she lets her eyes wander to the right,
and rest with pardOnable curiosity upon
CooIe Castle, where dwells the ogre of her
house Above COOle, and about two miles
further on, lies Aghyohillbeg, the residence
of Madame O'COnnOr, that terrible deScen-
dant of one of Ireland's kings; whilst below,
nesting among its frs and beeches, is Kill
more, where the HalfOrdS-a merry tangle
of boys and girlS-may be seen at all hours.
Then there is the viCarage, where the rec
tor lives with his family, which is large; and
nearer to the village, the house that holds
the curate and his family, which, of course,
is larger. Besides which, Monica can just
see from her vantage ground the wooded
slopes of Durrusbeg that have lately called
young Ronayne maSter,-a distant cousin
having died most Unexpectedly and left him
all his property.
Six months ago, Ulic Ronayne was spoken
of by anxious matrOns as wild lad, with
nothing to recommend him save his hand
some face and some naughty stories attach
ed to his name. Now he Is pronounced
charming, and the naughty stories, which
indeed never had any foundation, are dis
covered to have been disgraceful fabrica-
tons. Manageable daughters are kinder
to him than words can say, and are allowed
by the most cautious mothers to dance with
him as often as they choose, and even to sit
out unlimited hours with him in secluded
corners of Conservatives unrebuked.
After last lingering glance at the distant
ocean and the swelling woods that now in
merry June are making their grandest show,
Monica jumps down from her bank again
and goes slowly-singing as she goes-tO-
ward the river that runs at the end of MOyne
Down by its banks Mcyne actually touches
the hated lands of Coole, a slight boundary
fence being all that divides one place from
the other. The river ruSheS eagerly past
both, on its way to the sea, murmuring mer-
rily on its happy voyage, as though mock
ing at human weals and woes and petty
quarrels.
Through the waving meadows, over the
little brook, past the stile, Monica makes
her way, plucking here and there the scarlet
peoples, and the blue cOrnflowers aud
daisies, ''those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
the cOnstell ated flower that never SETS"
The sun is tinting all things with its yell
low haze, and is burning to brightest gold
the reddish tinge in the girls hair, as she
moves with dallying steps through the green
fields. She is dressed in n white gown,
decked with ribbons of a somber tint and
wears upon her head huge poke bonnet,
lEUlu WillCl lltI ldCG pttpS Out, ilctll
half cOquettish, wholly pure.
Her hands are bare and shapely, but lit
tie brown; some Old-fashioned rings glistcn
on them. She has the tail of her gown
thrown negligently over her arm, and with
her happy lips parted in song, and her eyes
serene as early dawn;
And now the sparkling river comes in
sight. Near its brink an old bOat-hOuSe
may be seen fast crumbling to decay; and
on the river itself lies, Swaying to and fro a
small punt in the very last stages of decline.
1t is very terrible little boat, quite at
deaths door, and might have had those lines
of Dante's painted upon it without libel:
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here"
But Monica, in happy ignorance of rOtting
timbers, thinks only of the Joy she felt last
evening when the discovery of this democrat
lied treasure was made. In the mOldering
bOat-hOuse she had found it, and so had
claimed it for her own.
She has told no one Of her secret, not even
Kit, who is, as a rule, her prime minister,
her contidante, and her shadow. She has,
indeed, had great difficulty in escaping from
her shadow" just now, but after much
diplomatic toll had managed it.
I O-mOrrOw, if to-day proves successful
and hel rowing does not fail her, of which
she has had some practice during the last
two years of her life, she will tell Kit and
Terry all about it, and let them share her
pleasure. But to-day Is her own.
The boat is connected with the shore by a
rope tied round the stump of tree by most
unskillful hands. Flinging her flowers into
the punt, she strives diligently to undo the
knot that she herself had made the night
before, but strives in vain. The hard rope
wounds her tender hands and yexes her
gentle soul.
She is still struggling with it, and already
little panied frown has made wrinkle on
her smooth brow, when another boat shoots
from under the willows and gains the little