“It was, sor. His lordship sent Katty fifty pounds to bank for her little Mary, and a long while after news came as he had married again--a widow lady. Little Mary throve well. Begorra, she was a rale beauty, and just the core of John Foley’s heart, and the apple of his eye. She was that clever and quick, wid such taking ways, but awful dainty about her food, and wid a terribly high sperrit. Learning was no trouble to _her_, and she has grown up a lovely girl, and it isn’t alone the golden sovereigns she has to her fortune, that makes all the boys crazy to marry her, ’tis her pretty face, and quare manners--not bold at all, but imperious and commanding. She could marry any wan she pleased; there is a strong farmer from this side of Kenmare, crazy about her, and I know a police-sergeant that is _clean_ out of his mind.” “And which is she going to take?” inquired Mr. Usher, who had finished his pipe, and stowed it carefully in its case, and began to think this story was rather long-winded, and that he would now cut it short, in favour of the short cut home. “Neither wan or the other,” was the solemn response, “and she won’t have no match drawn down for her; she’s all for pickin’ and choosin’, the same as a lady. They do say she favours a car-driver at the Glenveigh Hotel, Pat Maguire, my own cousin’s son, a good-looking boy, as wild for fun and dancin’ as herself. He has sorra a penny or a penny’s worth but his two bare hands, a beautiful voice, and a concertina; but she is as hard to catch as a sunbeam, and all for play and joking. She’ll spend half her time standing at the gate at Foley’s corner, colloguing and laughing wid the neighbours, or running off fishing, or picking flowers, and she’s at every dance and wake in the barony. Oh, she’s a rare one to sing, aye, and to talk, and has always a word with the men, and a pick and a bit out of them; and yet no one could ever say that Mary Foley was bould, though they do give out she’s a terror for spending.” Mr. Usher had heard more than enough of this little peasant and her attractions. He was beginning to feel a bit chilly, and he rose stiffly from the window-ledge, stamped down his trousers, yawned and said-- “Well, thank you, my good fellow, I’ve enjoyed my smoke and chat here, and your interesting story, but----” “Story!” echoed Mike Mahon, hastily rising to his feet. “Sure, I haven’t told it to you yit.” Mr. Usher turned about, and contemplated the speaker with an air of dignified surprise. “Faix, it’s a true word, sor! All the talk I’m after pointing out was only the fringe, or the outside. I’m coming to the kernel now, and if your honour will just hold on a few minutes I’ll maybe surprise ye!” “Oh, no doubt you will do that; but you see, I must be getting on now. Another time, perhaps, my good man, another time.”