Ulick Doran had lost no time in preparing his mother for a visit from his aunt’s emissary; but Ulick’s friends, or discoveries, were rarely appreciated at Kilmoran. Mrs. Doran was proud of her youngest son’s good looks, good manners, and his horsemanship, precisely as she would be proud of a valuable piece of furniture which belonged to her exclusively. But the boy was too like his father; he reminded her at every look and turn of her life’s--well, she would not go so far as to call it remorse; but at any rate, she was not fond of Ulick. Her share of maternal affection was expended on Barker, and she was ashamed to admit to herself, that her indifference to her second son almost amounted to dislike. However, he was home now for six months’ leave, and she must just make the best of him. “A woman who says she knows your aunt Nora,” she exclaimed, as she set down her glass of cheap sherry. “That is strange. And coming to see _me_. How did you come across her?” “At Foley’s, at the corner.” “And may I ask what were you doing in there?” “I just went in to light my pipe.” “So that’s what he _calls_ it, eh, mater?” broke in Barky, with a knowing chuckle. “Mary Foley is the prettiest girl in the whole side of the country, and the cockiest, most impudent little devil I ever came across. So _that’s_ your taste, is it, my boy!” Ulick flung his brother an indignant glance, and went on. “The woman was there sheltering, and asking her way.” “What sort of a person is she?” inquired Mrs. Doran. “It is not easy to describe her.” “No; it’s easier to describe little Mary, with her red poll,” interrupted Barky facetiously. “But,” resumed the narrator, “she is stout and elderly, talks with a strong American accent, and looks like a prosperous housekeeper.” “I suppose she has a letter of introduction from your aunt?” “She did not say, and I did not ask her.” “No, so _like_ you! But I shall ask her,” announced Mrs. Doran, with an air of stern decision. Mrs. Aron, as she was called, did not appear at the Castle for nearly a week. She had caught a wetting, and a cold, and remained at “The Arms” under the ministrations of Mrs. Hogan, imbibing gruel and a wonderful assortment of local gossip. At last, one afternoon, she presented herself at Kilmoran, but at an unfortunate moment: Mrs. Doran was in a bad temper; the cook and two other servants had given notice. Also she was momentarily expecting Lady Borrisokane, and various notables to tea. She sat enthroned in an arm-chair, pretending to read, clad in her best black satin. (Her toilettes now were rich satin, or silk for best, her everyday garment a black serge, with velveteen sleeves, which had long seen its best years.) Suddenly the man-servant flung open the door, and announced “Mrs. Aron,” and a tall, self-possessed, elderly woman stalked in.