All this our jarvey informed us, with a knowing look, belonged to Mr.Sweeney.
"Was he a squire of this country ?" I asked innocently.
"A squire of this country, sorr?
He is just Mr.Sweeney, the Gombeen man; he and his brothers, they all came here from where I don't know." An energetic man, certainly, Mr.Sweeney, and not likely, I should think, to allow the National League, to push matters here to the point of nationalising the land of Donegal, if he can prevent it.

In the highway we met, two or three miles out of Dungloe, a very trim dainty little lady, in a long, well-fitting London waterproof ulster, with a natty little umbrella in her hand, walking merrily towards the town.

How weatherwise she was soon appeared, the rain coming up suddenly, and coming down sharply, in the whirling way it has among the hills everywhere.

The scenery was desolate, but grand.

Countless little lochs give sparkle and life to it.