Eily's heart beat rapidly as she ascended the steep
staircase in the wake of her friend. Was it possible she could have
news of _him_? Then she shook her head, for Mrs. Grey was not in her
secret.
They entered the neat little room at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Grey,
walking to the table, never pausing to unfasten her bonnet-strings or to
unbutton her gloves, opened the book and laid it on the table,
exclaiming in triumph, "There you are to the life, Eily! See! it is the
picture of the year, and is called 'The Queen of Connemara.'"
A girl with eyes half-defiant, half-coquettish, lips demure and smiling,
hair tied loosely in a knot at the back of her proudly-set head, was
leaning against the white-washed wall of a thatched cabin--ah! it was
Dermot's own! Eily noted the geraniums in the little blue box that he
had tended himself.
Eily's heart leapt, and then was still; there were her two bare feet
peeping from beneath her thick red petticoat, just as they used in the
olden times, and there was the blue-checked apron she had long ago
discarded. With face now white, now red, she gazed at the picture, then
spelt out its title, "The Queen of Connemara," painted by Leslie
Hamilton.
"Arrah, 'tis Misther Hamilton himself! 'twas he painted me!" she cried
breathlessly, and sank into a chair completely overcome.
"Then, Eily, you are a lucky girl! Every one in London is talking about
'The Queen of Connemara,' and this Hamilton has made his name and
fortune by your picture.
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