car.

The weeks I spent in England intensified the Irish situation. The Government having affirmed that law and order positively must be re-established, more troops were drafted into the country, and the roads were systematically patrolled. Loyalists were forbidden to keep firearms in their houses; they were warned to "exercise extreme vigilance and caution" in their daily occupations. Curfew regulations were instituted throughout the greater part of Munster; but martial law, which alone could have dealt effectively with the rebels, was not proclaimed. And the campaign of murder and arson continued unabated.

Alighting at the junction on my return, I found the station entrance watched by armed Sinn Feiners, while just across the road a rebel flag flaunted itself from the blackened ruins of the police barracks.

I stowed myself and my luggage upon a shaky old jarvey car, which was anything but an ideal conveyance for a ten-mile drive, and jolted away from the station, inwardly imprecating a Government whose fatuous dealings with rebellion had rendered it inexpedient

The sordid little town seemed empty and quiet. Very few children were playing in the street, and none of the usual groups of dishevelled gossipers were gathered round the doorways. Cocks and hens and pigs, wandering at their pleasure in and out of the houses, seemed to have the place to themselves.

From its elevated position at the end of a sloping grassy square the imposing new Roman Catholic Chapel dominated the whole place. Grey and white pigeons wheeled round the steeple. The bell tolled sonorously a few times. Before the last vibration had died away there came a burst of shrill music from the square. It was an unfamiliar tune played triumphantly on Irish pipes. All music has a wonderful power of creating vivid mental pictures, and Irish pipes excel in the art of weird suggestion.

For a moment, while the piper was still out of sight behind the intervening houses, I seemed to have a vision of some dauntless unearthly leader advancing amid the exultant acclamations of his followers.

Then, as we turned the corner, the car-horse shied violently at a burst of flame which shot up with startling suddenness in the middle of the square.

From his insecure seat on my luggage the driver tried to steady him without success;

time, and I never goes along the road meself without looking this way and that and expecting to lose me life! What can we do at all with them Sinn Fein blagyards spying on us, and they with their balls of death handy to be pelting us day or night? Maybe 'tis your farm or your motor-car or your life they'd be wanting, and, faith, 'tis aiqual to them what they'd take." "That's quite true, Cronin," I said; "we all hold our possessions on sufferance-Sinn Fein sufferance. But the Government ought to provide protection for special cases."

He waved his hand in the direction of his farm.

66

Twenty years back the fairies put a pishogue on me land," he said with apparent irrelevance. "Divil a decent crop ever came off it since, and the bastes-the creatures! not ating what'd keep the life in them! And indeed, ma'am, I'm thinking 'twas a good turn the fairies done me, for 'tis the dread of the pishogue that does be previnting the Sinn Feiners from taking me farm. Believe me, the fairies'd give ye better protection than ever ye'd get from the English Governmint."

In the face of his utter seriousness it was impossible to laugh.

"We must look after Dinneen when he comes out of hospital," I said, rising from the boulder and gathering up my coat. "I shall be in England for the next few weeks, but do you keep your ears open while I'm away."

I nodded good-night to the old man.

He took off his hat again, holding it against his chest with the Sinn Fein badge discreetly hidden.

"Me own two boys is dead and buried, glory be to God," he said solemnly. "They died under the flag, and, indeed, they're safe where they are. But wouldn't it be very unthankful of me if I didn't be helping them soldiers that's living yet-yes, and be cursing their torminters ? God bless all the poor brave fellows, and may the divil catch the others with a curse on their black souls and roast every one of them the same as ye'd roast a potato."

Glancing round, I saw him reverently bent, as though in prayer, standing knee-deep in bluebells.

The missing motor was found next day on a road near my house.

An extravagant quantity of mud plastered it both inside and out, bearing witness to

the pace and distance it had been driven. There was an unmistakable bullet mark through the back, but beyond this and a few new scratches on the dash-boards, it was uninjured.

car.

The weeks I spent in England intensified the Irish situation. The Government having affirmed that law and order positively must be re-established, more troops were drafted into the country, and the roads were systematically patrolled. Loyalists were forbidden to keep firearms in their houses; they were warned to "exercise extreme vigilance and caution' in their daily occupations. Curfew regulations were instituted throughout the greater part of Munster; but martial law, which alone could have dealt effectively with the rebels, was not proclaimed. And the campaign of murder and arson continued unabated.

Alighting at the junction on my return, I found the station entrance watched by armed Sinn Feiners, while just across the road a rebel flag flaunted itself from the blackened ruins of the police barracks.

I stowed myself and my luggage upon a shaky old jarvey car, which was anything but an ideal conveyance for a ten-mile drive, and jolted away from the station, inwardly imprecating a Government whose fatuous dealings with rebellion had rendered it inexpedient

The sordid little town seemed empty and quiet. Very few children were playing in the street, and none of the usual groups of dishevelled gossipers were gathered round the doorways. Cocks and hens and pigs, wandering at their pleasure in and out of the houses, seemed to have the place to themselves.

From its elevated position at the end of a sloping grassy square the imposing new Roman Catholic Chapel dominated the whole place. Grey and white pigeons wheeled round the steeple. The bell tolled sonorously a few times. Before the last vibration had died away there came a burst of shrill music from the square. It was an unfamiliar tune played triumphantly on Irish pipes. All music has a wonderful power of creating vivid mental pictures, and Irish pipes excel in the art of weird suggestion.

For a moment, while the piper was still out of sight behind the intervening houses, I seemed to have a vision of some dauntless unearthly leader advancing amid the exultant acclamations of his followers.

Then, as we turned the corner, the car-horse shied violently at a burst of flame which shot up with startling suddenness in the middle of the square.

From his insecure seat on my luggage the driver tried to steady him without success;

All the townspeople were assembled in the square watching an immense bonfire burning with noisy spurts and wickedlooking darting flames, and filling the air with a choking acrid smell.

Sinn Fein volunteers moved ostentatiously to and fro making a show of keeping order, though, indeed, the people seemed quiet enough. Just a few shouted and gesticulated excitedly round the fire; many faces, however, showed unmistakable disapproval, and furtive glances of commiseration were directed towards a little group standing apart from the crowd upon the pavement.

Two women in cheap-looking new mourning stared, quietly crying, at the fire. The man who accompanied them seemed rigid from some strong emotion, and just behind, an older woman, with a crape bonnet incongruously surmounting her peasant's cloak and shawl, rocked herself and wailed aloud.

I turned to the car-driver for enlightenment. He replied in a matter-of-fact voice

"There was a policeman shot dead ere yestherday. They went to bury him now, and the boys cot the hearse

Traitor, indeed!" I cried, horrified; "traitors themselves, not only to Ireland, but to civilisation."

The piper at the horse's head looked up. I encountered the glance of dark-grey eyes lit by a sombre fire, which was no mere reflection of the flames of the burning hearse.

""Tis the English Governmint is the thraitor to civilisation," he said with deep conviction.

He slipped away through the crowd, reappearing with his pipes near the fire, where he called for "three cheers for the Republic, and down with all representatives of the brutal foreign usurper."

"Sure Teige O'Leary is as grand for talk as he is for music," observed the driver admiringly. "He have a tongue that'd lash a dead horse over a Limerick ditch. And he only three weeks out of hospital after the hungrystrike! More power to him, the fine brave patriot!"

"Drive on," I ordered curtly.

My self-control and forbearance would stand no more. Nor could I trust myself to glance again at the little group of mourners, knowing that I could not do anything to help them.

But the thought of them pursued me miserably throughout the homeward drive.

Next morning I wandered round the garden ruefully inspecting the fruit-trees, which presented a most lamentable appearance.

A recent gale laden with salt from the Atlantic had burned and seared both leaves and blossoms. In the whole garden not even a currant-bush had escaped.

The spring of 1920 was the most disastrous on record. Nature and Sinn Fein seemed to vie with each other in wanton and deliberate destruction.

Bat Cronin appeared on the long path between the espaliers. His observant gaze wandered to and fro over the blighted trees.

"Thank God for the potatoes," was his first remark. Voice and manner irresistibly suggested a drowning man clutching at straws.

He had called, he explained, to welcome me home, and he further expressed a wish to "take on a job of work."

With the air of one conferring a favour, he said, "I'm thinking 'twould be as well for me to be thraining the peas for ye, ma'am, the way they'll not get too bold and wild in themselves."

that all he desired was an opportunity for private conversation. The last few weeks, with their increasing record of crime, had left their mark upon him. Words and actions were seasoned with an unwonted restraint. And, indeed, caution in all things had become a necessity. For merely expressing an opinion men were hounded out of Ireland, or even shot, by those who championed complete liberty in all things.

It is always the apostles of freedom who forge the most tyrannical chains.

The tale that Cronin presently related filled me with concern.

Mike Dinneen had been discharged from hospital, only to find that his post in the telegraph office was no longer open to him.

In addition to this misfortune, Sinn Fein, to punish him for having worked during the general strike, arranged that he should be boycotted. The local shopkeepers, though secretly sympathising with him, dared not disobey Sinn Fein. Starvation seemed inevitable.