The graves in it were scarcely to be distinguished in the long rank grass.

The only one of note was that in which lay Terence Gorman with his wife and child--all dead twelve years since, within a week of one another.
With much labour we bore the coffin up the steep path, and in a shallow grave at the very cliff's edge deposited all that remained of our English mother.
As his reverence had said, she never took root in Donegal.

She had been a loyal servant to her master, a loyal wife to her husband, and a loyal mother to us her sons.

Yet she always pined for her old Yorkshire village home; a cloud of trouble, ever since we remembered her, had hovered on her brow.

She had wept much in secret, and had lived, as it were, in a sort of dread of unseen evil.
Folks said the shock of the tragedy at Kilgorman, at the time when she too lay ill in the house with her twin babies, had unnerved her and touched her brain.