There, on the window-ledge, covered with dust, which made it seem part of the woodwork it rested on, lay a little shabby book.

How it caught my eye I hardly know, except that, believing in Providence as I do, I suppose it had lain there all those years, like the Sleeping Beauty in the fairy tale, waiting for me to discover it.
I remember, as I lifted it, the under cover stuck fast to the window- ledge and parted company with the rest of the book.
It was a common little volume of English ballads, with nothing much to commend it to the book lover.

But the sight of it moved me strangely, for not only was it the same work, only another volume, as that I had brought away from the old home at Fanad, but on the front page, in my mother's hand, was written in faded ink, "Mary Gallagher, her book.

A gift from her dear mistress." I thrust the precious relic hurriedly into my pocket, and casting a last look round the room, which I now guessed to be that in which I first saw the light, I hurried back to the chamber over the porch.
My little mistress was very vexed and put about when she found that there was no way into the house except the one.

Had she been alone, I suspect she would have been up in a trice, and let dignity go; but my presence hindered her, and she chose, I think rather harshly, to blame me as the cause of her disappointment.
"If I were you," said she, with a frown, "and you I, I warrant I could have found some way to let you in." "Faith, you wouldn't be sorrier to keep me standing out here than I was," said I humbly.