shrinking self-distrust which he had been taught by repeated snubbings and protracted ostracism could prevent him from making himself known to this stranger. ‘The blessing of God upon Ireland!’ he said. There was not a moment’s hesitation on the part of the stranger. The sound of the Gaelic was enough for him. He stretched out both hands to Hyacinth. ‘Is it that you also are one of us--one of the Gaels?’ he asked. Hyacinth seized the outstretched hands and held them tight. The feeling of offered friendship and companionship warmed him with a sudden glow. He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice would break if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out a long Gaelic greeting, scarcely knowing what he said. Perhaps neither the man whose hands he held nor the owner of the shop behind the counter fully understood him, but they guessed at his feelings. ‘Is it that you are a stranger here and lonely? Where is your home? What name is there on you?’ ‘Maiseadh, I am a stranger indeed and lonely too,’ said Hyacinth. ‘You are a stranger no longer, then. We are all of us friends with each other. You speak our own dear tongue, and that is enough to make us friends.’ The tobacconist, it appeared, also spoke Irish of a kind. He cast occasional remarks into the conversation which followed, less, it seemed to Hyacinth, with a view of giving expression to any thought than for the sake of airing some phrases which he had somewhat inadequately learned. Indeed, it struck Hyacinth very soon that his new friend was getting rather out of his depth in his ‘own dear tongue.’ At last the tobacconist said with a smile: ‘I’m afraid we must ask Mr. Conneally--didn’t you say that Conneally was your name?--to speak the Beurla. I’m clean beaten with the Gaelic, and you can’t go much further yourself, Cahal. Isn’t that the truth, now.’ ‘And small blame to me,’ said Cahal--in English, Charles--Maguire. ‘After all, what am I but a learner? And it’s clear that Mr. Conneally has spoken it since ever he spoke at all.’ Hyacinth smiled and nodded. Maguire went on: ‘What are you doing this afternoon? What do you say to coming round with me to see Mary O’Dwyer? It’s her “at home” day, and I’m just on my way there.’ ‘But,’ said Hyacinth, ‘I don’t know her. I can hardly go to her house, can I?’ ‘Oh, I’ll introduce you,’ said Maguire cheerfully. ‘She allows me to bring anyone I like to see her. She likes to know anyone who loves Ireland and speaks Gaelic. Perhaps we’ll meet Finola too; she’s often there.’ ‘Meet who?’ ‘Finola. That’s what we call Miss Goold--Augusta Goold, you know. We call her Finola because she shelters the rest of us under her wings when the Moyle gets tempestuous. You remember the story?’ ‘Of course I do,’ said Hyacinth, who had learnt the tale of Lir’s daughter as other children do Jack the Giant-Killer. ‘And who is Miss O’Dwyer?’ ‘Oh, she writes verses. Surely you know them?’ Hyacinth shook his head.