The Queen of Connemara
BY
Florence Moon
The story of a simple Irish girl, a sorrow, and a disillusion.
The mountains of Connemara stretched bare and desolate beneath the November sky.
Down the bleak mountain side, with his broad-leaved caubeen (peasant's hat) pulled well over his face, tramped a tall young countryman, clad in a stout frieze coat. His was an honest face, with broad, square brow, eyes of speedwell-blue that looked steadfast and fearless, and a mouth and chin expressive both of strength and sweetness.
Dermot O'Malley was the only son of Patrick and Honor O'Malley, who dwelt in a little white-washed farmhouse near the foot of the mountain. His father tilled a few acres of land—poor stony ground, out of which he contrived to keep his family and to save a little besides.
The little patch surrounding the farmhouse was, in its proper season, gay with oats and barley, while potatoes and cabbage, the staple food of the peasant, flourished in plenty. With such a desirable home, such a "likeable" face, and steady, upright character, it was no wonder that Dermot O'Malley was the object of much admiration among the people of the mountains, and several scheming parents had offered their daughters and their "fortunes" to him through the medium of his father, according to the custom of the country.
But Dermot resisted all their overtures; his heart, and all the honest true love that filled it to overflowing, was given to Eily Joyce, the carrier's daughter; for her he would have laid down his strong young life.
It was Eily's duty during the summer to take a daily supply of fresh eggs from her own hens to the proprietor of the hotel, and every morning she presented herself at the door, a bewitching little figure, her basket slung on her arm.