Over a verdant little hill, which concealed this glen and the well we
mention, from a few humble houses, or rather a decenter kind of cabins,
was visible a beaten pathway by which the inhabitants of this small
hamlet came for their water. Upon this, shaded as he was by the
trees, he steadily kept his eye for a considerable time, as if in the
expectation of some person who had made an appointment to meet him. Half
an hour had nearly elapsed--the shades of evening were now beginning
to fall, and he had just come to the resolution of retracing his steps,
with a curse of disappointment on his lips, when, on taking another,
and what he intended to be a last glance at the pathway in question,
he espied the individual for whom he waited. This was no other than the
young beauty of the neighborhood--Grace Davoren. She was tripping along
with a light and merry step, lilting an Irish air of a very lively
character, to which she could scarcely prevent herself from dancing, so
elastic and buoyant were her spirits. On coming to the brow of the glen
she paused a moment and cast her eye searchingly around her, but seemed
after the scrutiny to hesitate about proceeding farther.
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