“_Think!_ Sure, don’t we know it? She, that used to be the sensiblest woman in the parish, and every one running to her for advice, is now, God help her, teetotally moidered, and wake in herself.” After a pause, “I see you looking at me very constant, sir. May I make so free as to ask if ye get a likeness of any one out of me?” “Oh, I--I--beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Usher. “I’m a bit near-sighted. I hope you don’t mind. I see you have splendid potatoes,” he remarked suddenly, pointing to a basketful. “I suppose you like them?” “Is it me? Augh, no!” with a gesture of abhorrence. “I hate potatoes; they just choke me. And when our bag of flour went astray on the train ’ere last week, I was daggin round for something to keep me alive, so I was. I’d die on potatoes.” “And what did you find?” “Ned Macarthy gave me a couple of salmon trout and a pigeon.” “Oh, he’s a great poacher!” and she laughed. “So I did finely. I think I hear me mother calling me, if you’ll pardon me”; and she rose and hurried into an adjoining room. “She keeps you all alive, I am sure,” observed Miss Usher, “so full of life.” “Aye, you’d never be wanting to go to a theatre or a pantomime as long as ye have Mary in the house,” assented Mrs. Grogan. “The chat out of her is wonderful, and she can talk to any one, as ye may judge! I can’t think how she comes by her freedom, for John and me sister was not a bit gabby themselves; but every one likes Mary, though she’s a poor worker. Half the boys are ready to put their hands under her feet. It’s not the looks, but what ye may call the cleverality of her!” “Is her mother really no better?” inquired Miss Usher. “Yes; she’s in her senses--no more foolish rambling, and rousing the priest with mad tales. But the head of her is full of pains. Oh, she’s greatly failed! She’s been lying a good while, and I’m thinking she won’t be long in it.” “I suppose you don’t remember Lord Mulgrave coming here?” ventured Mr. Usher, who had risen, and, with his back to Mrs. Grogan, was searching for his stick. “And troth an’ I do, and why wouldn’t I? I remember him well,” she rejoined, in her whinging voice. “I met him in the woods one day, and he gave me a great salute. Such a lovely, tall, fine gentleman! I never seen her ladyship; she never stirred out much. It was at Lota she died. Oh, but she made the lovely corpse!” “Indeed!” said Miss Usher. “Yes, that was an awful affair, and unexpected. They do say”--lowering her voice almost to a whisper--“she _walks_! Anyway, no one will go near the place after dark.” “Surely you don’t believe that?” protested the lady. “Well, ma’am, I’ve seen and heard many a quare tale in me time, and I don’t rightly know what to believe and what not to believe; but it would be more reasonable-like if she’d stop with her own folk, and haunt them, instead of scaring poor Irish people, as are black strangers.”