A GALWAV DEMESNE 



They say there is no such word in the Irish language as 

 gratitude, and yet 



My Kiicoultra hostess drove me round the property on 

 the day after my arrival, and drew the pony to the stand- 

 still on a height that finely dominated the park and house. 

 When I had duly admired the view she pointed with her 

 whip to a little white cottage that stood a few yards away 

 and began a kindly tale of the old woman who had long 

 lived there and had but recently passed away. 

 " When Fd come round to see her, I used to find her, times 

 out of number, leaning over the wall, gazing down at Kil- 

 coultra. Always she'd be leaning over the wall, staring 

 down at the house. And one day I said to her, ' Mary, 

 what in the world makes you stand there like that?' 

 And she answered me, Tm looking down on the roof 

 that shelters me lovely master ! ' " 



" My lovely master ! " A fragrant thing to have become 

 to the poor that live on your soil ! When we reach a 

 sphere where things are judged by different standards and 

 higher measures than we can now conceive, how far will 

 not such a title outweigh any paltry worldly honour ! 

 Yet if the memory of its lost master dominates and haunts 

 all Kiicoultra house and lands, there is nothing to sadden 

 one in the thoughts it inspires / and our stay there is alto- 

 gether full of charm and pleasure. 



Not only are the ladies a fund of anecdote, racy of the 

 soil,- not only do they live delightfully in touch with their 

 peasantry, with eye and ear ever ready to catch the humour 

 and the pathos about them/ but they are cultured, far- 

 travelled beings. Not much in the outer world escapes 

 their knowledge and shrewd apprehension. 



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