After I
had forced my way through a gentleman's grounds, I came out on the
high road, and sat down to rest myself on a heap of stones at the
top of a long hill, with Cockermouth lying snugly at the bottom.
An Irish beggar-woman, with a beautiful little girl by her side,
came up to ask for alms, and gradually fell to telling me the
little tragedy of her life. Her own sister, she told me, had
seduced her husband from her after many years of married life, and
the pair had fled, leaving her destitute, with the little girl upon
her hands. She seemed quite hopeful and cheery, and, though she
was unaffectedly sorry for the loss of her husband's earnings, she
made no pretence of despair at the loss of his affection; some day
she would meet the fugitives, and the law would see her duly
righted, and in the meantime the smallest contribution was
gratefully received. While she was telling all this in the most
matter-of-fact way, I had been noticing the approach of a tall man,
with a high white hat and darkish clothes. He came up the hill at
a rapid pace, and joined our little group with a sort of half-
salutation. Turning at once to the woman, he asked her in a
business-like way whether she had anything to do, whether she were
a Catholic or a Protestant, whether she could read, and so forth;
and then, after a few kind words and some sweeties to the child, he
despatched the mother with some tracts about Biddy and the Priest,
and the Orangeman's Bible.
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