“Ye see, old John Foley, who was terribly proud of Mary, was took off of a sudden in a fit, and of late his wife got queer in her head. They do say her mother was the same, though some made out it was tay-drinking; sure enough, she never had the taypot out of her hand. Whatever it was, she turned so mortal strange that Mary had to get her aunt Bridgie, Katty’s sister, to come over and help mind her; but it wasn’t better, but worse, she got-shockingly unaisy and restless and worrying in herself, or else sitting and never speaking, all as wan as some stone image. At long last she bid them send for the priest, as she had something on her soul. And when he come, she ups and she told him, and she told Mary, and she told any one that would listen, what I’m about to tell _you_.” Here Mike cleared his throat energetically, and continued-- “And _what_ do ye think Katty giv’ out? That her child died; it was always droopy, and she could not bear to part wid the other. She loved it as her own. Its father hated it, and would marry again, and rear a family, and never grudge _her_ the pretty little girlie at all! And so she sent off her own dead baby to the grand place in England, and she kept the stranger, who has grown up fine and strong and clever, and everything that is surprising for quickness and talk.” As Mike related this audacious case of child stealing, his companion’s expression changed from the countenance of the tolerant, easily amused listener, to that of a keen man of business, who is suddenly made acquainted with a most serious piece of intelligence. He removed his pipe, his lips set in one grim line, and his face was slightly flushed, as he glanced at his guide with a penetrating sidelong look. No, the man was no garrulous “Ananias,” but an Irish peasant of a faithful and romantic nature, who still, year after year, week after week, haunted the place which had once held his ideal. To the best of his ability he was telling what he believed to be the truth. “Katty took great pride out of the child, and soon forgot as she wasn’t her own flesh and blood; and as for John, he never knew, and he just lived for his daughter. Well, now Katty was growing old, and her sin rose up and faced her, her conscience tormented her, and she said she must ease her mind before she died. She made out she felt awful bad, and when Mary looked in her face with her ladyship’s own two eyes, when she smiled at her the same as her mother, she just stiffened in the bed!” “And how did every one receive this amazing news? What did they say to it?” demanded Mr. Usher, in a sharp legal key. “Oh, bedad, Mary laughed at it for pure nonsense. She was a country girl born and bred. To be an English countess with a castle and servants, and to wear a gold crown on her head, would just kill her, if it was true; but it was only a fairy tale, and she was her mammy’s daughter, and no one else----” “What did the priest say?”