We soon hear sounds of earnest pleading, in a broad Irish brogue, from our friend of the red cloak.

As they approach the gate sound distinctly the words,-- 'It's all thrue, my leddy--as thrue as the blessed gospel.

I'm afeered she's dyin' if yer honour's glory won't lend us a hand.' 'I don't know how to believe you, my good woman, for some of you come every week and deceive me with all kinds of stories.' 'An' she's Welsh, yer honour.

She's come to find out her friends, my leddy! God bless ye, ye've a kind eye and a gintle voice,' Red cloak spoke the truth.

The woman who is now added to the group has truly 'a kind eye and a gintle voice.' She is short and small of form, of middle age and matronly appearance; neatly and even handsomely dressed, as becomes the mistress of one of the largest and wealthiest farms of a country where large farms are rare.