‘“Yes, I knew him well; and he’s alive? He must be very old by this time.” ‘“He ‘s something about eighty-six or seven; but he doesn’t let on to more nor sixty, I believe; but, sure, talk of----- God preserve us, here he is!” ‘As he spoke, a thin, withered-looking old man, bent double with age, and walking with great difficulty, came to the door, and, in a cracked voice, called out-- ‘“Ned M’Evoy; here’s the paper for you; plenty of news in it, too, about Mister O’Connell and the meetings in Dublin. If Cavanagh takes any fish, buy a sole or a whiting for me, and send me the paper back.” ‘“There’s a gentleman, inside here, was just asking for you, sir,” said the host. ‘“Who is he? Is it Mr. Creagh? At your service, sir,” said the old man, sitting down on a chair near me, and looking at me from under the shadow of his hand spread over his brow. “You ‘re Mr. Studdart, I ‘m thinking?” ‘“No, sir; I do not suspect you know me; and, indeed, I merely mentioned your name as one I had heard of many years ago when I was here, but not as being personally known to you.” ‘“Oh, troth, and so you might, for I ‘m well known in these parts--eh, Ned?” said he, with a chuckling cackle, that sounded very like hopeless dotage. “I was in the army--in the ‘Buffs’; maybe you knew one Clancy who was in them?” ‘“No, sir; I have not many military acquaintances. I came here this morning on my way to Dublin, and thought I would just ask a few questions about some people I knew a little about. Miss O’Kelly----” ‘“Ah, dear! Poor Miss Judy--she’s gone these two or three years.” ‘“Ay, these fifteen,” interposed Ned. ‘“No, it isn’t though,” said the captain crossly, “it isn’t more than three at most--cut off in her prime too. She was the last of an old stock--I knew them all well. There was Dick--blazing Dick O’Kelly, as they called him--that threw the sheriff into the mill-race at Kilmacud, and had to go to France afterwards; and there was Peter--Peter got the property, but he was shot in a duel. Peter had a son--a nice devil he was too; he was drowned at sea; and except the little girl that has the school up there, Sally O’Kelly--she is one of them--there’s none to the fore.” ‘“And who was she, sir?” ‘“Sally was--what’s this? Ay, Sally is daughter to a son Dick left in France. He died in the war in Germany, and left this creature; and Miss Judy heard of her, and got her over here, just the week she departed herself. She’s the last of them now--the best family in Kerry--and keeping a child’s school! Ay, ay, so it is; and there’s property too coming to her, if they could only prove that chap’s death, Con O’Kelly. But sure no one knows anything where it happened. Sam Fitzsimon advertised him in all the papers, but to no use.”