"I can well believe the latter statement when I remember the actions of those using it," said Chester.

"Here we are," announced Lucy, as they alighted and walked to the entrance of the park. "It will cost us six pence to get in."

Chester paid the man at the gate a shilling. The castle loomed high on the side of a hill, its big, square tower being about all that now remains of the ancient structure. A woman was in charge of the castle proper.

"The stone that you kiss is away up to the top," explained Lucy. "You will have to go up alone, as I dare not climb the stairs. I'll wait here. But stop a minute; the impressions will be more lasting if you get the proper information first. Here, we'll sit on this bench while I tell you about the castle."

Chester readily agreed to this.

"To sentimental people," began the girl, as she looked straight at the high walls in front, "Blarney Castle is the greatest object of interest in Southern Ireland; and, of course, the Blarney Stone is the center of attraction. It was built by Cormack McCarthy about 1446. Of the siege of the castle by Cromwell's forces, under Irton, we have the following picturesque account in verse, which, I must say, has a Kipling-like ring."

She opened her book and read:

"'It was now the poor boys of the castle looked over the wall, And they saw that ruffian, ould Cromwell, a-feeding on powder and ball, And the fellow that married his daughter, a-chawing grape-shot in his jaw, 'Twas bowld I-ray-ton they called him, and he was his brother-in-law.'

"The word 'Blarney' means pleasant, deludin' talk, said to have originated at the court of Queen Elizabeth. McCarthy, the then chieftain over the clan of that name who resided at Blarney, was repeatedly asked to come in from 'off his keeping.' He was always promising with fair words and soft speech to do what was desired, but never could be got to come to the sticking point. The queen, it is told, when one of his speeches was brought to her, said: 'This is all Blarney; what he says, he never means.'

"Now, this is the reason for kissing the stone up there in the tower.

Listen:

"'There is a stone there, whoever kisses, Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent; 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a Member of Parliament.

A clever spouter, he'll sure turn out, or An "out--an'--outer" to be let alone; Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him, Sure, he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone.'

"Now, then, these are the facts in the case," concluded Lucy. "Proceed to do."

Chester climbed the long stairs to the top. From the western edge, he looked down and waved at Lucy, then hurriedly scanned the beautiful prospect about him. The wonderful stone then drew his attention. It is set in the parapet wall, being one of the under stones in the middle of the tower. This parapet does not form part of the wall, but is detached from it, being built out about two feet and supported by a sort of scaffolding brace of masonry. This leaves a space between the battlement and the wall, which in olden times, enabled the defenders to drop stones and other trifles on to the heads of assailants one hundred twenty feet below. Two iron bands now reach around the famous stone, spanning the open space, and fastened to the wall. The aspirant who wishes to kiss the stone, must grasp these irons, one in each hand, and hang on for dear life. As the stone is underneath the parapet, the feat of kissing it is not easy. In the first place, one must lie on one's back, then with head extended over the wall, the head must be bent down and back far enough to touch the lips to the stone. To perform the feat safely, there must be assistants at hand who must hold one's legs in steady grip, and others who must sit on the lower part of the body to assure the proper equilibrium.

Being entirely alone, it is needless to say, Chester did not kiss the Blarney Stone. He was satisfied with reaching under and touching it with his hand. Then he returned to Lucy.

"You did not kiss the stone," she immediately declared.

"You know, don't you, that it takes two to kiss--the Blarney Stone?"

"I've heard it so stated. I've never been up to it."

The park around the castle is very inviting, especially on a fine, warm afternoon. There are big trees, grass, and neatly kept walks. Chester and Lucy sauntered under the trees. A tiny brook gurgled near by, the birds were singing. Lucy chattered merrily along, but Chester was not so talkative. She noticed his mood and asked why he was so silent.

"I was thinking of that promise. I fear I am not doing right."

"O, that reminds me--Father, of course could not--"

"Could not what?"

"Well, the night before he became so ill on the boat he told me he was going to release you from any promise not to meet me and talk religion to me."

"Did he say that?" They paused in their walk.

"Yes; and he meant it--he means it now, if he could but say as much."

"I thank you for telling me * * * Let us sit down here on this rustic seat. Do you know, I believe your father has gotten over his first dislike for me."

"O, yes, he has. I think he likes you very much."

"I was not surprised at his actions when I told him I was a 'Mormon.' He can hardly be blamed, in view of the life-long training he has had. And then, knowing that you have been in danger from that source before made him over-sensitive on the point. I marvel now that he treats me so well."

Lucy looked her happiness, rather than expressed it. The guide book lay open on her lap. Chester picked it up, looked at a picture of Blarney Castle, and then read aloud:

"'There's gravel walk there, For speculation, And conversation In sweet solitude.

'Tis there the lover May hear the dove, or The gentle plover In the afternoon.'

"Lucy," said Chester, as he closed the book, "I'm going to call you Lucy--I can't call you Miss Strong in such a lovely place as this. We have an hour or two before we must return, and I want to talk over a few matters while we have the chance. In the first place, I want you to tell me where you are going when you leave Ireland. I want to keep track of you--I don't want to lose you. If your father would not object, I should like to travel along with you."

"Father may remain here a long time, so long that we may not get to see much of Europe, and of course, you can't wait here for us."

"Now listen, Lucy. _You_ are Europe to me. I believe you are the whole world."

She did not turn from him, though she looked down to the grass where the point of her sunshade now rested. Her face was diffused with color.

"Forgive me for saying so much," he continued, "for I realize I am quite a stranger to you."

"A stranger?" she asked.

"Yes; we have not known each other long. You don't know much about me."

"I seem to have known you a long time," she said, looking up. "I often think I have met you before. Sometimes I imagine you look like the young missionary whom I first heard on the streets of Kansas City; but of course, that can't be."

"No; I never was on a mission. But I'm glad you think of me as you do, for then you'll let me come and see you in London, in Paris and wherever you go. I assure you, it would be rather uninteresting sight-seeing without your presence, if not always in person, then in spirit. After all, much depends on the condition of the eyes with which one looks on an object whether it is interesting or not."

Then the talk led to personal matters. He spoke of his experiences in Utah--some of them--and she fold him her simple life's story. Her mother had died many years ago; she had no very distinct recollection of her.

She and her father had lived with housekeepers for many years. What with school and home, the one trip before to Europe, a number of excursions to various parts of her own country, her life had passed very smoothly and very quietly among her friends and books. As Chester listened to her he thought how like in some respects her story was to that of Julia Elston's. And as she sat there under the trees, she again looked like Julia, yet with a difference. Somehow the first girl had vanished but she had left behind in his heart a susceptibility to a form and face like this one beside him. Julia had come into his heart, not to dwell there, but to purify it, adorn it, and to make it ready for someone else;--and that other person had come. She filled the sanctuary of his heart. Peace and love beyond the telling were inmates with her. Had he not come to his own at last.

That afternoon, as he sat with Lucy under the trees at Blarney, listening to her story, told in simplicity with eyes alternating between smiles and tears, he felt so near heaven that his prayers went easily ahead of him to the throne of mercy and love, bearing a message of praise and gratitude to the Giver of all good.

These two were quite alone that afternoon. Even the care-taker went within the thick walls of the castle, remembering, perhaps, that she also had been young once. Birds may have eyes to see and ears to hear, but they tell nothing to humans.

On the way back to Cork there was only one other passenger in the car,--an Irish girl carrying a basket in which were two white kittens.

About half way to the city, the train stopped, and much to the travelers' surprise, a company of about two hundred Gordon Highlanders boarded the train, filling the cars completely.

"What," asked Chester. "Have the Scotch invaded Ireland?"

"I suppose it's a company just out for a bit of exercise," suggested Lucy.

Their bare, brown legs, kilts and equipment were matters of much interest to Chester. When the train arrived in Cork, the soldiers formed, and with bagpipes squeeling their loudest, they marched into St.

Patrick's street. Chester and Lucy and the girl with the basket followed.

"This is quite an honor," remarked Chester, "to have a company of soldiers come to meet us, and to be escorted into town by music like this. How did _they_ know?"

"Know what?" escaped from Lucy before she discerned his meaning.