Oh, yes, the painful truth! Lord Mulgrave was childless; his present wife had been a fascinating little widow with one girl, when he married her, fifteen years previously. Her ladyship was smart, ambitious, devoted to society, dress, and social diplomacy; her daughter was also smart and up-to-date, who shot and danced, acted and smoked; she and her mother managed his lordship, who was a tall, taciturn man of fifty, fond of fishing and of peace--proud, reserved, and ceremonious. What would be the effect of introducing an uneducated Irish peasant girl--a girl celebrated for “sperrits” and “chat” into this aristocratic and exclusive circle? Mary was, of course, a Catholic. She had never been in a carriage, or seen a silver fork, in her life. Yet if all this circumstantial evidence went for anything--not to speak of Katty’s confession--she was Lord Mulgrave’s only child and heiress. It was in a highly perturbed frame of mind that Mr. Usher pursued his way to the hotel. He had so much food for meditation that he made a very poor dinner, and was unusually silent. Questioned by his sister with respect to his excursion, his replies were brief and unsatisfactory. “He had walked about eight miles. Yes, it was a pretty country. No, he had not met any motors.” Subsequently, as he sat out in the garden after dinner, smoking cigarette after cigarette, his sister, Miss Usher, who knew his moods, came over and took a seat beside him and said-- “Bence, I see you are getting your old London expression, and thinking of some business.” He nodded assent. “Can’t you leave it behind even for six weeks, and enjoy yourself like every one else? You know you promised me you would.” “Yes, Emily, I know I did. It is all very well to say I’ll leave business behind me; but what can I do when it _follows_ me here?” “What do you mean?” she demanded. “There were no letters for you to-day.” “Never mind, my dear, I’ve got some hard thinking to do. A most serious case has recently come to my notice.” “Well, I suppose”--rising as she spoke--“I’d better leave you to do your thinking alone. I can be no help, can I?” “No--or--By the way! You poke about the neighbourhood a good deal, and are in and out of the houses, looking for bits of china, and studying the people, as you call it. Have you ever come across a place called Foley’s farm?” “Foley’s farm,” she repeated. “Yes, at Foley’s Corner. Quite a small farmer lives in it, I believe. I stopped there the other day to ask the way, and saw a beautiful girl.” “Oh, that’s a common sight in these parts.” “Yes, I know--of a certain style; black hair and grey eyes put in with a dirty finger. But this one is of another type. Chestnut locks, a graceful figure; she carries her head like royalty, and Vandyck would have been proud to have painted her hands, though they _are_ rather red I must confess. I have promised to lend her some magazines, and will take them up to her one of these days.” “Take me, too--will you?”