“I don’t rightly know,” he replied, “but they were highly delighted, I can tell ye--his lordship with the sport; for in those days ye couldn’t put down yer foot on the mountain without standing on a bird. The woodcock was just dying of old age; and as for the fish, they were waiting on ye.” “More than they do now!” grunted Mr. Usher. “Himself liked the sport, and her ladyship the place. It was soon after the old master dying, and was just pure fairyland. The fuchsia hedges were a sight, the palms a wonder, the magnolia-trees the size of a cabin; and as for passion-flowers, the house was smothered between them and roses, and the carnations scented half the lake!” He paused to draw breath after this burst of eloquence, struck a match, and then resumed: “Ye may see the terrace here. I keep it still weeded. ’Twas here the old master took his stroll; ’twas here _she_ used to walk.” He heaved a profound sigh, then proceeded in a brisker key. “Yes; his lordship and her ladyship was well content, though maybe it was a bit lonesome for her. Many an evening I’ve seen her pacing up and down this same terrace, watching for the boat. Oh, she was a picture, I declare! like an angel on the chapel window.” “Then you remember her?” “Ah, who wouldn’t? Bedad I do! If I was to shut me eyes, I could see her standing there still; her hair (and she had crowds of it, enough to stuff a pillow) was dark red, like a copper beech; a small lily face, set on a long, white throat, a pair of wonderful dark eyes, and wee hands, like a child’s; just a blaze of stones; her voice was as sweet as a song, and when she smiled, ochone! ochone! it gave yer heart a squeeze. I never saw anything like it before.” “Or since,” suggested Mr. Usher. “Oh, then, bedad, sir, I won’t give in to that! I’ve seen the very comrade of it, an’ I’ll tell ye no lie! Well, her ladyship was mad on flowers, and she used to come and talk to me when I was weeding and working, asking questions about the country folk, and their matches and queer ways, and the old master--God rest him; and she said how sad it was to see his beautiful place let to strangers. ‘It’s a paradise,’ says she--‘the loveliest spot I’ve ever seen. You ought to be proud of your country, Mike Mahon!’ I told her I was so--and prouder again that it was plaisin’ to _her_.” “Now that was a fine piece of blarney,” exclaimed his companion.