AT THE RIVER'S EDGE 



It happened to me to spend a winter night in the 

 company of Anastasia. 



It was in a village on the border of Connemara ; we 

 sat by the fire, and talked intermittently dm-ing our 

 spell of watching. I did not wholly care for Anastasia, 

 but she was companionable, and her interest in others 

 was so abounding that it often overflowed as sym- 

 pathy; that she was at all times a sympathetic 

 talker went without saying. In the West of Ireland 

 that is so ordinary a matter as not to be noticeable, 

 until some withering experiences in other lands place 

 it in its proper light. She was, of course, an Irish 

 speaker by nature and by practice, but her English 

 was fluent, and was set to the leism'ely chant of 

 West Galway; in time of need it could serve her 

 purpose like slings and arroAvs. In all her sixty 

 years she had never been beyond the town of Galway, 

 and she was illiterate, two potent factors in her 

 agreeability. 



Everything about her was clumsy, except her large, 

 watchful grey eyes; I have never seen a cow seat 

 itself in an armchair, but I imagine that it would do 

 so in the manner of Anastasia. She smoothed her 

 clean blue apron over a skirt that was less clean 

 than it, and continued to drop a few pebbles of talk 

 into the dark pool of the midnight. Like pebbles 

 they sank, and the midnight took them greedily 

 into its deeps, because they were concerned with 

 spiritual things. 



