“Far from it. His tenants are eight hundred in number, and there are not three evicted in the year. I know personally twenty of them who owe him four years’ rent and are never troubled about it. But he has taken position against the League—that is enough. And then, don’t you know, sir, the best of landlords is not worth much in the eyes of his tenants. _They want the land and they will have it._ But this is my house. Please come in, sir.” * * * * * Thus chattering, the communicative Celt had brought me to the entrance of a small low house in a by-street of Killarney. We entered a sort of kitchen-parlour on a level with the lane. No carpet or flooring of any kind but the simple beaten clay, a large old-fashioned chimney, a table, a few straw-covered chairs; on the walls a whole private museum in chromo-lithography: Pope Pius IX., the Marshal Duke of Magenta, Mr. Parnell, &c., and a branch of holy palm. Upon our coming, a poor creature, pale and emaciated, had risen without showing any surprise. “Mrs. MacMahon, _Sor_! Everilda Matilda, a French gentleman who honours our house by stopping a moment in it. Call the children, my dear; the gentleman will be pleased to see them, I think.” A tall girl with brown eyes first presents herself, then a boy between twelve and thirteen years old, then a variety of younger fry. I am told that Mary has passed successfully her “standards,” that Tim has just begun Latin with an ultimate view to become a priest “like his uncle Jack;” then the “mountain dew” is produced. It is a kind of home-made whisky, not unpalatable. At last mine host turns to his wife. “Supposing, my dear, you show your lace to the French gentleman, to let him see what you can do when you are not bed-ridden. Perhaps he will like to bring back some little remembrance of Killarney to his ‘lady.’” I was caught. Everilda Matilda instantly produced a box containing cuffs and collars of Irish point, and all that remains to me to do, if I am not ready to forfeit my rights to the qualification of gentleman, is to buy a few guineas’ worth. Hardly is the matter over, than MacMahon turns to the future ecclesiastic— “And you, Tim, will you not show the gentleman those sticks you polish so well?” Caught again! If each member of the family has his own private trade, the _mountain-dew_ threatens to be rather an expensive refreshment. “I am greatly obliged to you,” I said, “but I have got already a complete collection of _shillelaghs_.” MacMahon’s jaw fell visibly. “But we could perhaps make another arrangement, that would be more advantageous,” I continued quietly. “You know the country well, you tell me?” “As a man who has lived forty years in it and never left it.”