“Indeed we are!” responded the latter. “Delight upon delight! That is almost too good to be true! Well, I am overjoyed to hear this! Now to resume my explanation why I came to you instead of writing: Finding that I had three weeks upon my hands I said to myself: ‘I will not write to get meager news. I will go down to West Virginia and see these near connections of my unknown children, and I will talk with them and get from them every detail of my son’s and daughter’s lives and characters.’ And so here I am.” “And now that you are here, O’Melaghlin, we hope that you will stay with us until the day comes when we must all leave Wolfscliff for New York to embark on our voyage,” said Stuart. The visitor turned and looked inquiringly on the lady’s face. “Oh, yes, do, Mr. O’Melaghlin. We should be so happy to have you!” she exclaimed, in response to that mute appeal. “You do me much honor, sir and madam. And to be frank with you, there is nothing on my part to prevent my acceptance and enjoyment of your kindness and hospitality,” replied The O’Melaghlin in modest words, but with a pompous manner. Palma then withdrew and left the two men over their claret, and went to put her babies to bed. When this sweet duty was done she returned to the drawing-room, where she was soon joined by Stuart and O’Melaghlin. And there, later in the evening, the latter told his story. It was the common story of a race of men and a fine estate falling into decadence from generation to generation. This The O’Melaghlin, in telling the tale, attributed to the misfortunes of the family, and the persecutions of the Saxon. But to those who could read between the lines, even of his version, it was self-evident that the downfall of the house was due to the vice and folly of its representatives. Few men in the position of The O’Melaghlin would tell such a story with perfect frankness. Certainly he did not so tell his. And therefore it seems necessary, in the interests of truth, that it should be told by me. With the exception of those absurd traditions of the prehistoric period of which no one can know anything, the proud family record of The O’Melaghlins, previous to their degradation, was in the main true, as every student of Irish history knows. But for a century past The O’Melaghlins of Arghalee had been fast livers, hard drinkers and reckless sinners. In every generation, every succeeding heir had come into his patrimony poorer in purse, prouder in spirit, and weaker in will to resist evil than any of his predecessors. At length, about twenty-five years before the period of which I write, young Michael O’Melaghlin, at the age of twenty-one, came into the remnant of the grand old estate, consisting then of the half-ruined castle of Arghalee and a few acres of sterile land immediately around it.