Gladys, the Reaper. Anne Beale
will give you a night's lodging, and that is all I can do for you,' says the gentle mistress of the farm.
'The Lord bless ye, my leddy, the holy angels keep ye, the blessed Vargin and all the saints—'
'Oh, hush! hush!' exclaims the good woman, highly shocked. 'Help the poor girl, and come with me.'
The woman went towards the girl, and trying to assist her to rise, said—
'Now, Gladys, asthore! An' shure, my leddy, she's a thrue Welsh name. I'll help ye, my darlin', there! Och! an it's betther she is already, as soon as she heerd of a night's lodgin'.'
The young man who was kneeling by the girl just now, goes to her other side, and succeeds in supporting her by putting his arm round her waist, whilst the woman holds her by one arm; and thus they follow the good mistress of the farm, followed in their turn by the rest of the party.
They move slowly down the road, underneath the fine oak and ash trees that shelter the back of the farm, until they reach a large farm-yard, wherein some thirty fine cows, of Welsh, English, and Alderney breed, are yielding their rich milk at the hands of some three or four rough-looking men and women who are kneeling down to get it.
'Come here, Tom,' cries the mistress, authoritatively.
Tom gives a knowing wink to the nearest girl, mutters, 'Irish again,' and goes to his mistress.
'See if there is good clean straw spread in the barn, Tom, and make haste.'
Tom goes to a large building outside the farm-yard, whither his mistress and the rest follow him.
'Plenty of straw, ma'am, good enough for such folk,' says Tom.
'Spread some more, and shut the window in the loft.'
This is done in a slow grumbling way.
The barn is a large, clean, airy building, that must look like a palace to these ragged, way-worn people.
'Now you may sleep here to-night, provided you go off early and quietly to-morrow morning. There is a good pump down below, where you can get water to wash yourselves, and at eight o'clock I shall lock the barn door; my husband always insists upon that.' Thus speaks the mistress.
'Heaven bless his honour, we're all honest. We wouldn't harm a hair of your blessed heads. We heerd o' ye many a time, and o' the good lodgin' and supper—the sun shine upon ye—ye give to the poor Irish on their thravels.' Thus answers the Irishwoman.
'You tell one another then! And this is why we have more calls than any one else!'
'The Lord love ye, and why wouldn't we? 'Tis the good as always gets the blessin'.'
Whilst this little conversation is going on, the girl, Gladys, is laid upon the shawl-blanket of the woman who wears that singular attire, and a pillow, half rags, half straw, is contrived for her head. The bonnet is taken off to increase her comfort, and, as her head falls languidly back upon the rough pillow, a wan, thin face is disclosed, that, from the regular outline of the profile, must be pretty, under happier circumstances, and is interesting.
Whilst the guests prepare to make themselves comfortable in different ways, the kindly farm-lady leaves them, amid many and enthusiastic blessings, and returns to the house.
In less than half-an-hour she reappears, followed by a female servant, both carrying tokens of a true hospitality that expects no return. She goes towards the poor girl with a small basin of good broth and a plate of toasted bread, such as might tempt the palate of a more dainty invalid; whilst the servant places a can of real Welsh broth, smelling strongly of the country emblem, the leek, in the midst of the hungry crew who are scattered over the barn. To this she adds various scraps of coarse bread and hard cheese, which she draws from a capacious apron, and evidently considers too good for the luckless vagabonds before her. She is soon, however, as much interested as her mistress in the sick girl, to whom the latter is administering the warm restorative. Spoonful after spoonful is applied to her lips, and greedily swallowed though with evident effort. The toasted bread is soaked in a portion of the broth, and is also devoured as speedily as offered, with an avidity made still more painful by the difficulty of swallowing, occasioned by some obstruction in the throat.
'God help you, poor girl,' says the good Samaritan, as she puts the last mouthful to the lips of the patient.
The eyes unclose, and a tear falls upon the wan cheek, as a murmured, 'Thank you, my lady,' is faintly heard.
The 'lady' turns away with a heavy sigh, whilst the servant begins to arrange the blanket-shawl and rags more comfortably, and finally takes off her large linsey-woolsey apron to make a softer resting-place for the head and neck of the girl. The grateful friends that stand around now bless the servant as zealously as they blessed her mistress, and if she understood the language in which the warm Irish hearts express their gratitude, she would probably wonder who 'the Vargin and all the holy saints and angels' are, that are invoked for her sake.
Again the farm-lady goes away, and returns bearing a small bottle of medicine, that she bids the red-cloaked woman give the sick girl in about an hour. She then leaves her patient and motley guests to their supper and night's repose, followed by such prayers as the poor alone know how to utter, and perhaps how to feel.
CHAPTER II.
THE FARMER.
The rainbow was a true prophet; the sun that went down so gloriously last night amid the half-dried tears of a lately weeping earth, has arisen this morning with a resolution to dry up all the remaining tears, and to make the Sabbath as it should be—a day of rejoicing. Sunrise amongst the hills and valleys! I wish we all saw it oftener. Not only would the glorious spectacle make us wiser and better, but the early rising would be not only conducive to health and good spirits, but to the addition of a vast amount of time to the waking and working hours of our very short life.
All nature arouses herself by degrees, as the great source of light rises from his couch, curtained with rose and daffodil-coloured drapery. As these gorgeous curtains spread east and west, and he takes his morning bath in the clouds and vapours, rises up the proud monarch of the farm-yard, as if in bold rivalry, outspreads his fine plumage in emulation of the rose and daffodil curtains, and bids him welcome with a voice so loud and shrill, that he must almost hear it from his domed throne above. More arbitrary in his kingdom than the sun in his, this grand Turk insists on arousing all his subjects; and the sleepy inmates of his harem withdraw their heads from beneath their wings, and, one by one, begin to smooth their feathers, and to descend lazily from their dormitories. A faint twittering is heard amongst the ivy-leaves, in answer to 'the cock's shrill clarion,' and in a few seconds, the little sleepers amongst the oak and ash trees take it up, and by the time the sun has come out of his bath, and the cock has ceased crowing, there is a full chorus of heart stirring minstrelsy round about the quiet farm. Down below in the meadow, the cattle begin to shake off the dew-drops from their hides, and to send forth a plaintive low as they slowly seek their early breakfast in the spangled grass, or by the steaming river. Away among the hills, the faint bleat of the sheep echoes from heath to heath, whilst their white fleeces dot the plains. Over the face of happy nature creeps a glow that seems to come from the heart, and to make her look up, rejoicing, to the sun as part of herself, and yet a type of the Great Creator.
But whilst this Sabbath morning hymn thus rises, betimes, to the throne of Him who sits beyond the sunbeams, tired man sleeps on. The farmer's household is still slumbering, and after a week of hard labour, taking an additional hour's repose on that day which was graciously appointed as a day of rest. Scarcely can the sun peep in through the drawn curtains and shutters of the windows, and no song of birds, or low of cows, seems as yet to have reached the closed ears of the