OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



current of plaintiveness, and remarks once more that she 

 wouldn't put it past him. 



We go through the house in Mrs. Quinlan's wake. There 

 is something that looks like a kitchen rubber laid over one 

 corner of the mahogany table in the great red-papered 

 dining-room / and on it a crusty loaf flanks a dim glass 

 and a cracked plate. Mrs. Quintan casts a phrase of ex- 

 planation as she trails us around. 



" He do be looking for his bit of dinner early/' We pre- 

 sume " he " to be the " crathur that gives no trouble/' 

 We pass through a bewildering series of bedrooms. The 

 damp has been coming in very copiously at Curriestown. 

 Mrs. Quinlan points out the worst places in each apart- 

 ment as we go along : 



" Look athere, now ! Just cast your eye on that, Miss 

 Carrie, and sure it's nothing to what's behind the bed. If 

 ye could see the way it is at the back of that press, Miss 

 Carrie, you'd be hard set to believe it. Och, the house is 

 in a tirrible state ! Me heart's broke pulling the furniture 

 about, thrying to get them bad bits covered." 

 Some one suggests that perhaps the owner will have it 

 painted for the black lady. But Honoria Quinlan is still 

 of opinion that you couldn't tell what he'd be at. 



On the way back we burst a tyre, not far from one of 

 those hamlets which are typical of the western coast. Set 

 in surroundings of the wildest beauty, it is practically 

 deserted. The four walls of the ruined chapel gaping to 

 the sky, and the long row of empty broken-down cottages 

 testify still to the ruthless policy that laid the country 

 288 



