Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified, and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet, in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather.

Through many pipes he pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.
"Oh, pshaw!" he grumbled to himself at last, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

"She has forgotten me.

It was only one single day.

But what a day!" He lit a fresh pipe and began anew to dream of that wonderful day, that day which was the one unfading point of light in all his Old Country stay.