Ireland Revisited

I

WE were out four days before she emerged from the crowd of other passengers, that little woman in gray. Her deck chair was to my right, but between us sat a nun, on her way to England for a year of study. I had become acquainted with Sister Mary Josephine the first day out, and by this time we were old friends. Conversation with her was so enchanting that I was somewhat oblivious of the silent presence at her right. If I thought of it at all, it was only as a steamer-rug and a book; for it had shown no other signs of life.

On this particular day, the deck steward having served tea, Sister and I were conversing over our cups on the subject of Irish folk-lore, and I ventured to relate, in the words of Thomas Moore, the legend of Saint Kevin and Kathleen. I began, —

At this point my memory failed me; and while I hesitated — trying to recall the next two lines — the steamerrug showed signs of life, and a little woman in a heavy gray coat, appearing from underneath it, leaned forward and finished the verse for me: —

‘Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.’

And thus she came into my vision. Obviously she was Irish, for she had the pleasing accent of Dublin. Closing her book, she joined in our conversation. Her eyes were blue — Irish eyes, with melancholy instead of the merriment that belongs in them. She was young, though her hair was silver; and her very thin face gave her an ascetic appearance. One might call her plain, and she might pass anywhere unnoticed until she spoke. Then her soft-toned voice, her calm manner, and her intelligent conversation proclaimed her to be a woman of cultivation, and compelled attention.

While not identifying herself in any way, she seemed to be well acquainted with that group of young Irish poets who stand out so pathetically against the background of the Rebellion of 1916. She fascinated me, and added charm to the end of what had been a most charming day at sea.

I was reading the Ocean News, and called the attention of the little woman in gray to the wireless dispatch that told of Harry Boland’s death. She remained silent, leaning back in her chair, while I deplored what seemed to me the futile revolt against the Treaty. It was the path of common sense — I said with some vehemence — for the people to follow the Free State leaders. And then I looked, expectantly, for a sympathetic response.

But the little woman gave no indication of interest in the matter. Had she been other than Irish, I should have concluded that the subject bored her, and changed it; but, as it was, it seemed downright mean for her to show no feeling. So I continued, asserting with even more vehemence that the children of the Irish, in America, would contribute no money to help a fratricidal war.

She sat mute, absolutely cold to my eloquence. Her silence seemed uncanny, and I was conscious of a sense of defeat, though loath to admit it.

I proceeded. 4 What will happen,’ I said, ‘is this: the public opinion of the world will demand that England return to Ireland to restore order; and if she once exerts all her might — which, of course, as yet she has not done — she can exterminate the Irish.’

The little woman in gray raised herself, and looked at me quietly for a moment. Then her eyes went out to the horizon, as she said in a gentle tone, ‘The soul of Ireland will never die!’

This seemed to me not only poetry, but fiction. It riled me. ‘The soul of Ireland will never die!’ I exclaimed. ‘Perhaps not. I am quite sure that England will be satisfied that it shall live forever up among the saints, while she possesses the land in peace.’

Here the bugle sounded for lunch, and the little woman in gray put her arm in mine, as we walked inside. My awful prophecy had not strained the entente cordiale.

It was late in the afternoon, and we were taking our exercise together, when the coast of Ireland appeared out of the fog. Everyone who crosses the ocean knows the pleasant thrill of the first sight of land. The passengers stood in groups along the railing to watch it, and a courteous gentleman offered us his glasses. I wheeled round to hand them to the little woman in gray, and found her in the act of making the Sign of the Cross, her eyes raised to Heaven. Instinctively I turned to the shore, not wishing to intrude on what seemed a sacred moment for her. Nor did I think it extraordinary that she should stand there offering a silent prayer at the first sight of her native land after an absence of two years.

We resumed our walk; and as we went along I announced that, contrary to all warnings of friends at home and fellow passengers, I had decided to go to Ireland. My little gray friend was delighted to learn this, and we planned to be fellow travelers as far as the city of Cork.

It was eleven o’clock that night when the ship anchored at the entrance to the harbor, and they proceeded to disembark the passengers destined for Ireland, while the business of scrutinizing passports and checking us off began. The little woman in gray clung close to me; and finally it came our turn to be checked off. She came before me, and as they checked her name she passed out of the room very quickly, without waiting for the clerk to examine into her place of destination. He called her back; but she was gone, and an official who stood beside the clerk pointed to her address on the page; but it was my address he pointed to, for I noticed that there was none beside her name, and the clerk did not press the point.

It was after midnight before the tender started up the harbor. When we came to pass the customs at Queenstown, the little woman in gray sought out a particular official, who seemed to know her. He marked her luggage without examining it, and I overheard him say, ‘Don’t delay this lady.’ My little friend was agitated while she asked me to go up to the hotel and engage a room for her, because she must remain to send a telegram to Cork. I engaged the rooms and ordered a light supper, and it was not long before she turned up. It was now half-past two in the morning, and after we had had refreshments two very tired, sleepy little women said good night.

II

‘I must call on some friends immediately on reaching Cork,’said the little woman in gray, while we were riding up from Queenstown the next morning; ‘and I should be eternally grateful if you would take my luggage along with you to the Metropole. I will follow later and join you for lunch.'

Of course, I was only too pleased to render so small a service to a fellow traveler. The train pulled into Cork, the guard opened the carriage-floor, and my little friend alighted. I stopped to collect my belongings, and then followed her; but the elusive little creature had disappeared. I looked around me, dazed at the suddenness of her exit, but she was nowhere in sight; and after waiting a few minutes I gave her up. I called a jarvey; he piled the luggage on one side of his jaunting car, while I balanced it on the other, and we cantered off to the Metropole.

True to her word, the little woman in gray arrived in time for lunch. We had a table to ourselves in a cozy corner of the dining-room; and, as she sat opposite, I wondered what magic had transformed the melancholy woman I took her to be into the sprightly, almost jovial, person she now seemed. She was delightful company in this mood: someone I should have liked as a companion all along the way. After lunch it occurred to her that it would be interesting to visit the grave of the late Lord Mayor of Cork, Terence McSwiney; and on the way back she would call on his sister, Miss Mary McSwiney; but how to find her address she did not know.

I suggested that possibly they had street directories in Ireland, and that that was where I naturally looked for addresses. She laughed merrily while she told me that she was enjoying pretending to be an American tourist, but if she asked questions at the desk her speech would betray her at once. So, would I mind looking up the address, for no one could mistake me for anyone but a Yankee.

I saw no objection to her pretending to be an American tourist, if she enjoyed that sort of thing; so of course I should not mind looking up Miss McSwiney’s address. Then it fell to my lot to make arrangements with the jarvey, and we started off to the cemetery.

As I was curious to know the real sentiments of the plain Irish people about the troubles of their country, I never missed an opportunity, if I could help it, of conversing with them; and so I began with our jarvey. The little woman in gray was silent all along the way, while I chatted with him. He talked freely, assuming that we were both Americans. He was bitter in his condemnation of De Valera. He said the majority of the people of Cork were for the Free State, but they could not speak out at present, for the Irregulars were in control of the city, and it would go hard with those who did not agree with them; but the Free State troops were expected soon, and the people would be greatly relieved.

Then we came to the cemetery, and found the Republican Plot, as it is called. The inscription on the grave was written in Gaelic, which my little friend translated with ease. There were a lot of other graves of young men who had perished in the fight, and we walked among them, reading the inscriptions. Then, before leaving, we knelt and recited the De Profundis.

On the way back, the little woman in gray whispered that she did not want the jarvey to know where she was calling; she would alight at a certain street and find her own way to Miss McSwiney’s house, where she would remain for tea.

It was nine o’clock in the evening, and I was alone in the lounge of the Metropole, reading, when my fellow traveler returned. She was attended by a young man whose name was well known to me, but whom I had never met. He writes poetry, and makes his home in America, though his real home is Ireland.

We sat around the fire, — for the night was chilly, — and had an interesting conversation about many things. I recalled afterward, while the little woman in gray was recounting some amusing incidents of our voyage, that he gave her a knowing look, as he remarked, ‘You should have brought over some guns.’ I did n’t expect to find this gentle-mannered poet so bloodthirsty, and said so.

Then the subject turned on Irish politics, and the ethics of assassination. He thought the assassination of General Wilson was a great deed for Ireland, while I thought it was a great evil. Then he related things that had been done in Irish homes during the reign of terror instigated by General Wilson, to justify the vengeance that followed him. His voice was well modulated and his manners were gentle. It was difficult to imagine him condoning assassination.

I reminded the little woman in gray of her words that ‘the soul of Ireland would never die,’ and argued that when young Irish men and women countenanced murder, the soul of Ireland was surely dying.

When the poet finally took his leave, I had the impression that his object was not so much the freedom of Ireland as the destruction of the British Empire.

The little woman in gray was not sleepy, and we sat up for some time after the poet had gone. ‘Well,’ she said, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, ‘it’s been a great day for me. I have accomplished the work I came from America to accomplish, and I owe it to you to say that meeting you has been a godsend. It helped me to get through without difficulty.'

Then she revealed to me that she had been sent over on an important mission to De Valera. She did not say what that mission was. It was now successfully accomplished, and she no longer feared capture. It filled her with glee to recall how easily she had passed the officials, because, being in my company, she was taken for an American tourist.

I looked at her in amazement. The thought that this little woman had tricked me was humiliating; and, worse still, I had helped her to do some evil to Ireland! When I found my voice I rose and said good night. But before I closed the door behind me, she called out, ‘Oh, by the way, did you happen to notice the number of that jarvey’s car?’

I did remember his number, but had no intention of betraying him into the hands of the enemy; and I told her so.

When I was alone, many things came back to my mind and took on a new meaning. Her agitation when the coast of Ireland appeared out of the fog; and her prayer, which I felt sure was that she might pass in safety. Now I knew why it had fallen to my lot to make the arrangements at the hotels, to buy the railroad tickets for Cork, to give directions to the jarvey. This accounted for her silence on the road to the cemetery. And oh, the poor jarvey! How freely he had talked to the trusty Americans. Doubtless she had recounted his conversation at the barracks, — which was the place from which she and the poet had come, — and they had asked her to get the jarvey’s number. I determined to part with my little gray friend at once; and early the next morning I rapped on her door, but she had gone.

Some time later, when I was in Dublin, I told this story to an American gentleman who was near to some member of the Provisional Government, and I learned from him that, very shortly after our ship arrived at Queenstown, there was great activity among the Irregular troops; for someone had brought money from America to pay for a large consignment of guns which the manufacturers would not release until they saw the money. Then I remembered the little group before the fireside that night at the Metropole in Cork, and the words of that gentle poet as he looked knowingly at the little woman in gray: ‘You should have brought over some guns.’

III

To fulfill a promise made many years ago, I set out after breakfast on a journey to the place where my mother was born and lived as a child. Crookhaven is the name of that place, and it is situated on the southwest coast of County Cork, looking east to Cape Clear, at the very tip of the peninsula that lies between Roaring Water Bay and Dunmanus Bay. To reach this remote spot the road from Cork lies through Skibbereen, and there the railroad ends. From that point a tram line runs to Scull, where one may hire a conveyance to complete the journey to Crookhaven.

It was about noon when we arrived at Skibbereen, and it would be an hour before the tram left for Scull. I looked about for a place to lunch, and as I sauntered along I noticed a group of stern-faced young men in civilian clothes standing by the bridge over which the train had just passed. I concluded that they belonged to the Irregular army, which wears no uniform, and supposed they were waiting to take the next train.

It was beginning to rain when the tram started for Scull; and by the time we were well on the road it came in blinding sheets of water against the windows, so that it was impossible to see the country. Scull lies at the foot of Mount Gabriel, where there is a lake, which has never been fathomed, — so the native people say, — and wherein lives the great serpent, condemned by St. Patrick to remain there until the Day of Judgment.

A young Irishman, the owner of a rickety Ford car, agreed to take me over to Crookhaven. By this time the rain had subsided somewhat, and I was able to observe the rugged country through which we drove. From the village of Goleen the road runs all the way by the sea; and standing out there, in a haze that gave it a phantom look, was the Fastnet Rock. At last we arrived at Crookhaven — the wildest, the loneliest, one of the loveliest, and certainly one of the poorest places I had ever seen.

I had seen all the loveliness of it before in vision. ‘The purple mountains were all around us,’ my mother said, ‘except where we looked out to sea, just inside the Fastnet Rock.’ It needed only ‘the luggers lying in the haven’ to complete the picture. They were not there; but in their place, under the shadow of the purple mountains, was anchored a British sloop of war. On the highest point of the promontory stood the ancient gray stone tower — ‘No one living knows how many hundreds of years it has been standing there.’ Around this ancient tower, they say, fairies keep nightly guard; for all this region is fairyland — Tír-nan-Og — ‘the land of perpetual youth.'

It was late in the afternoon, and another storm was brewing; so I concluded to remain here for the night. There is no hotel in this wild region, but I found shelter with a kindly family near-by, and passed the evening pleasantly by their glowing fireside. It was interesting to talk with them, and from them to learn the attitude of the simple people in this region toward the present struggle. There was no sympathy with De Valera’s cause down here; their hope was in the Free State. For the late Lord Mayor of Cork, Terence McSwiney, this family had a great admiration; but they regretted the hunger strike, feeling that Ireland needed just such men as Terence McSwiney to live, instead of dying, for her.

About midnight, a terrific thunderstorm broke over Crookhaven. I stood by the window watching the lightning. As it lit up the sea, I caught glimpses of the Mizen Head, — the most extreme southern point of County Cork, — ‘the last spot where the sea-bird can rest until it folds its wings and stands on the continent of America.’ Then it came back to my mind that ‘on the brink of the sea, at the Mizen Head, there is an old graveyard where lie the ashes of my people’; and when the lightning came again, I fancied I saw their spirits trooping along to welcome me home.

In the morning the sun was shining brightly, and I went forth on a little exploring expedition. I walked to the summit of the hill where stands the ancient tower. The illusion of the fairies was gone, and the mystery surrounding the date of this tower did not seem so difficult of solution. It is probably of Norman origin, and evidently was built as a beacon tower on that rocky coast.

In the clear light of the morning, the Fastnet Rock had lost its phantom look and seemed nearer. I was enjoying the scene in solitude, when an aged woman came toward me with a pleasant greeting. From her little thatched cottage at the foot of the hill, she had seen me coming up the road, and, as a stranger is a rare sight in these parts, she came out ‘just to bid the time of day.’ I knew that she was curious to know what brought me there, and I was very glad to tell her that I had come to see the place where my mother’s family had lived long ago, before the Great Famine had scattered them over the world. She asked the family’s name, and on hearing it her old face beamed with interest, while she told me that the memory of that family still lingered there, and she would lead me to the spot where stood what was left of the house once known as ‘The Cape of Good Hope,’ where strangers always found a welcome. So she led the way toward that side of the hill sloping down to the haven, and there the ruins stood.

I walked back with the old woman to the door of her thatched cottage, and accepted her invitation to step in. It was into the quaintest kitchen I went, where a peat fire was smouldering in a large fireplace, over which a black iron kettle swung. The old woman lived alone here, for all her children were in America. I talked with her about America, and told her that we regarded it as a great privilege to live so near the sea as she did; that in America grand seacoast places like hers were usually owned by great millionaires, and that picturesque little thatched cottages gave place to marble palaces.

This old woman, never having been out of her native spot in Ireland, had no knowledge of ugly smoking factories or tenement houses, and — having no means of contrast — she was all unconscious of the loveliness wherein she dwelt. When I was leaving her, she had a request to make: would I, when I arrived in America, call to see her children, and let them know she was well? Certainly, I should be delighted to do this for her. Where did they live? ‘They live in a place called by the name of Dakota.’

On the way down the hilly road I came up to a little barefoot girl driving a flock of geese. She had lovely coloring and deep blue eyes. On seeing me, she stopped, and curtsying said, with a bright smile, ‘The blessing of God on you!’

I know now that my reply should have been, ‘The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you,' giving her two more blessings, so as not to be outdone in courtesy. But.— heathen that I must have seemed — what I did say was, ‘Hallo, little girl!'

The picture of that little girl will remain as a pleasant memory, but I shall always wish I had known better than to make that commonplace reply to the Christian salutation, made with simple dignity.

I helped her to marshal her geese along the beaten track, until we came to her father’s farmhouse, and then she told me her name - Mary O’Driscoll. It was a name that once was powerful in the very place where she now walked barefoot; for the territory of the O’Driscolls comprised all the southwestern district, from Courtmacsherry Bay to Bantry Bay, until Cromwell came. If little Mary looked across to Cape Clear through a strong glass, she could easily see the ruins of Castle Dunamore, or ‘The Golden Fort,’ in olden times a stronghold of the O’Driscolls; and the great chieftains of other days might well be proud of the beauty and native grace of their little kinswoman.

The young man of the rickety Ford car was waiting when I returned from my exploring expedition. He brought the news that there were no trains running from Skibbereen to Cork, because the day before, shortly after the train that brought me passed over it, the bridge had been blown up. That was the deed those stern-faced young men I saw at the railway station were contemplating. I had two weeks to ‘do’ the cathedral towns of England, and I found myself bottled up in the southwest of Ireland. The driver had a plan, however. He would take me to Bantry — where he was sure I could get a train to Cork; and we started off.

At Scull we took on an official of the Bank of Ireland. Our car was humming along when, suddenly, from behind a poor little farmhouse rushed a very young man, musket in hand, who ordered us to halt.

‘What a ferocious-looking figure!’ I remarked.

‘Only a sentry,’ said the bank official.

After a show of passes, we were permitted to proceed on the journey. At the next town this gentleman was leaving the car, and he wished me a pleasant journey. I thanked him, and expressed the hope that Ireland would soon see better days.

‘Oh, this will end,’ he said, ‘when they stop sending money from America to finance it.’

Bantry was bristling with guns. Women and men were standing in groups in the streets, with anxious faces. There were no trains to Cork, and no telling when there would be. The cathedrals of England now began to look like castles in Spain; but as it was long past noon I turned for comfort to a place where they serve lunch to wayfarers.

The proprietor, who was a friendly soul, showed a special interest in helping me. ‘If it’s adventure you’re after,’ he said, ‘shure Bantry is the place to stay, for there’ll be plenty of it here shortly.’ If I did n’t care to wait over to see the battle, he knew a reliable jarvey who would take me over to Glengariff.

Under the circumstances I felt that prudence was the better part of valor, and accepted his services. I knew that no one in Ireland would intentionally kill me; but boys who handle guns don’t all shoot straight, and I really did want to see those English cathedrals before I died.

On the road to Glengariff we met several machines filled with men holding their guns ready for action, speeding toward Bantry, where the Irregulars were concentrating. I found Glengariff — ‘the rough glen’ — a place of great beauty, and I should have liked to remain there a long time, it was so alluring; and I could easily have forgotten all about the cathedrals of England. Oh, such a blessed peace was there! But after two lovely days I started off once more on my journey back to Cork.

It is on the drive to Kenmare that the surpassing loveliness of Glengariff is seen to perfection. The road runs around the side of a mountain for some miles; and when the top is reached the whole valley comes into view — ocean, mountain, glen, and river. We reached Kenmare in time for luncheon. At the hotel the Irregular troops were quartered. Young fellows who never before had been out of the little villages where they were born were living in luxury, demanding the best food, drink, and cigarettes.

The hotel is managed by women, and they had put carefully out of sight everything that was movable; for De Valera had said to his men: ‘Ireland is yours for the taking,’ which was interpreted by some of them to mean that they might take everything in sight. The barracks at Kenmare had been burned down the night before; for the Irregulars were preparing to evacuate the town, and it is their custom to burn their quarters behind them. While I was talking with an Irishwoman whose property had suffered from the depredations of the Irregular troops, she remarked, ‘Shure the Black and Tans were gintlemen to them.’

From Kenmare I went by side-car to Killarney, where I arrived late in the afternoon. When I was comfortably settled, I went out for a stroll. In the principal square of the town a crowd of people was gathered; and a young man with a musket was moving among the groups, selecting certain men, who then moved out into the middle of the road to join a little band already gathered there. I went over to a group of women and inquired what was going on, and was told that over all the roads leading to Killarney ambushes were laid, and the young fellow with the musket was conscripting men to watch the roads through the night, for the Free State troops were almost at Killarney.

Sometimes a man selected would resist; whereupon the young fellow with the musket would drag him out roughly, and if he resisted further would strike him over the head with the butt end of his musket. Then again, when women saw the men of their family dragged out, they would join in the resistance, screaming and crying. I saw the young tyrant with the musket approach a rather elderly man, and without warning strike him blow after blow across the face. One of the women told me that this man was being punished because he had driven Michael Collins in a motor-car.

I talked for a long time with this group of women, and they told me that the people of Killarney were all for the Free State, but they were afraid to speak out because ‘those boys have guns.’ They said that under English rule, in their day, they had never suffered the tyranny they were suffering now.

It was a curious thing to observe that, while the Free State troops were expected in Killarney at any moment, no one was taking to cover. On the contrary, the inhabitants — even women with babies in their arms — were all gathered in the public square waiting to see the battle. I got the impression that they were waiting hopefully for the Free State troops to come.

That night I was roused from my sleep by a loud knocking on the outer door of the hotel; and after the knocking had continued for some time a window in the story above went up, and a woman’s voice called down, ‘Who’s there?’ A weak-toned masculine voice answered, ‘It’s me.’ Then the lights went up, and the woman went down to admit a stray little Republican lad, not more than eighteen, who came in from watching the roads, and demanded food and shelter.

After this, things were quiet for a spell, when again there was a loud knocking on the outer door. Once more the window went up, and the same woman called out, ‘Who’s there?’ This time, a strong man’s voice ordered her to ‘Come down and open the door.’ The woman seemed to obey very meekly. The lights went up, and she came down and unbolted the door. There were two men with guns standing there, and in loud tones they demanded to see the man who had just been admitted. Up the stairs they tramped, making a great deal of noise, and returned with the little Republican boy in their custody. It appeared that he had grown weary out watching the road, and left his post without leave.

I have always liked brass knockers, they are so quaint and ornamental; but they make enough noise to wake the dead.

At breakfast I talked with an elderly gentleman who is a barrister, and I asked him what he thought the outcome would be. He replied in a determined tone, ‘The Treaty has been accepted, and the Government will function. There will be disturbances here and there for some time to come, but De Valera is beaten, and he knows it.’

Killarney was not a comfortable place to stay, and I was advised to go on to Milstreet, where there was a chance of getting a train for Cork. I engaged a side-car, and off I rode through the most wonderful scenery, over mountains and through valleys. I observed, as I went along, that every bridge, however small or however narrow the stream it spanned, had been blown up.

Sometimes we were obliged to ford streams; and on a long lonely ride at the side of a mountain an ambush was laid, — rocks piled up across the narrow road, — so that we were obliged to dismount, and the jarvey led his horse up over a steep incline, while I trod cautiously behind. On the summit of the hill there was a barricade of rocks, behind which, the jarvey said, men were watching with guns.

This jarvey was something of a philosopher, and he knew the history of Irish politics from the time of Wolfe Tone to the time of De Valera. He admitted the whole world was in a bad state, but it seemed to him at one time that things were about to mend, ‘when two very sinister figures appeared on the pages of history’ - Woodrow Wilson and De Valera. He agreed that they might possibly be well-meaning men, but they ‘had the fatal faults that schoolmasters all had. They were stubborn and tyrannical.’ He had never had any respect for schoolmasters. I told him that in my everyday life I lived among people who were teachers; and when he was leaving me at Milstreet he asked if I would be kind enough to take a message back to the president of the great Harvard University from an Irish jarvey — ’Tell him from me that a schoolmaster never made a success of anything.’

At Milstreet there were no trains for Cork, but someone was going to take the parish priest and his curate in a motor-car to Macroom. My philosopher-jarvey busied himself on my behalf, and asked the parish priest if he would mind allowing an American lady to share a part of the expense of the motor-car. Then he assured me I would have a comfortable drive, for no one in Ireland would molest a priest. When we reached Macroom, where there was great excitement because the Irregulars fleeing from Cork were coming in there, we learned that the train for Cork, scheduled to leave at 6.30 p. M., was delayed.

It was a great relief when the train finally pulled into the station at eleven o’clock. As we approached the city, flames were rising from three different directions, the Irregulars having fired every barracks. The Free State troops had entered Cork three hours before, and everything was now normal. There had been no resistance, for De Valera’s men had fled.

IV

How to cross to England was the problem I now faced. Of course, it was easy crossing from Dublin; but there were no trains between Cork and Dublin. The boat for Fishguard was not leaving Cork for some days, and there was uncertainty even about that, for the entrance to the harbor was blocked, De Valera’s men having ordered the captains and crews off two vessels lying in the River Lee; and then, after looting, they had taken the vessels to the entrance of the harbor, where they were sunk just across the path of navigation. My hopes of ever ‘ doing ’ those English cathedrals were fading.

The next morning, bright and early, I went to one of the shipping offices on the quay, and asked to see the head man. I was informed that he was a very busy man, and no one could see him except by appointment. I told the messenger that I understood perfectly how precious is the time of a busy man; but would he kindly take my card in to that busy man, and bring me word from himself whether or not he would see me. This he did, and very shortly the manager came out and invited me to step into his office.

I stated my case, and asked if there was any way in which I could get out of Ireland. This seemed to amuse him, and he agreed that Ireland was a good country to get out of. He said there was a way, but it was not being advertised. If I came back at three o’clock, all prepared to leave, he would let me know about it.

I turned up at the appointed time, and learned that the path of navigation was now open, and a boat which had been bringing troops from Dublin would start on the return trip late in the afternoon. It would carry troops as far as Queenstown; and if I was willing to take the risk they would allow me on that boat.

To get aboard, I went through a high gate at which a sentry was posted, to whom I showed my pass. There were two other women aboard, and some secret-service men; and every foot of space on the decks, fore and aft, was occupied by Free State troops.

The first mate kindly invited me to go up on the bridge, so that I had a splendid view of the superb harbor of Cork. We passed the sunken ships, which had been pulled to one side, and shortly came outside the river. ‘Now,’said the mate, ‘we are out of danger.’ He told me that what he had feared most was not so much the sniping from shore, but that the river might be full of mines.

In the harbor of Queenstown there were several British warships; and when the Free State troops disembarked they were lustily cheered by the crews of the warships. It was not long before we were in the open sea, on our way to Dublin, and that boat was so small that it bounded on the billows like a rocking-horse.

I was in Dublin when the news came that General Michael Collins had been slain in ambush. They brought the body back to Dublin by boat, and arrived after midnight.

Through the darkness of the early morning hours came a faint sound of wailing — the music of Irish pipes. Nearer and nearer it came, and the weird procession, escorting the body of the fallen hero, passed through Stephens Green to the Mortuary Chapel, directly under my window.

On the day after the funeral, in a little restaurant in College Green, I saw the woman in gray. I could not resist the temptation to let her know that, clever and elusive though she was, I had found her.

She greeted me most cordially, and said she was sailing for America the following Wednesday, but would like to meet me somewhere, for she wanted to know how I had fared since last we met.

I was leaving for England that night, and invited her to meet me for tea at the Shelburne at four; and she agreed to come. Now, at the Shelburne some members of the Provisional Government were quartered, and I wondered if she would really come there. At the appointed hour, a messenger brought a note from my little friend, saying that ‘something entirely unforeseen had intervened,’ which would prevent her keeping the appointment with me. The lounge of the Shelburne Hotel was hardly a safe place for the messenger of the Rebel leader.