"I'll tell you why," he said. “I just came to you and put myself in your hands. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. From this peaceful scene Jack's eye fell upon Jonathan, who, seated upon the stile, under the shade of an elder tree, was evidently watching him. It reverberated in the silence. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. Hill, Meysey Hill.
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