"Owld Moll," as she was known, was a power in the parish, and her help was sought in many emergencies. Did a cow go dry, Moll knew the reason and might possibly remove the spell; if a baby fell ill, Moll had an explanation of its ailment, and could tell at a glance whether the little one was or was not affected by the evil eye of a secret enemy. If a pig was stolen, she was shrewd in her conjectures as to the direction its wrathful owner must take in the search. But her forte lay in bringing about love-matches. Many were the charms at her command for this purpose, and equally numerous the successes with which she was accredited. Some particulars of her doings in this direction were furnished by Jerry Magwire, a jolly car-man of Galway, who had himself been benefited by her services. "Sure I was married meself be her manes," stated Jerry, "an’ this is the way it was. Forty-nine years ago come next Mickelmas, I was a good-lookin’ young felly, wid a nate cabin on the road from Ballinasloe to Ballinamore, havin’ a fine câr an’ a mare an’ her colt, that was as good as two horses whin the colt grew up. I was afther payin’ coort to Dora O’Callighan, that was the dawther av Misther O’Callighan that lived in the County Galway, an’, be the same token, was a fine man. In thim times I used be comin’ over here twict or three times a year wid a bagman, commercial thraveller, you’d call him, an’ I heard say av Owld Moll, an’ she wasn’t owld thin, an’ the next time I come, I wint to her an’ got an inchantmint. Faix, some av it is gone from me, but I mind that I was to change me garthers, an’ tie on me thumb a bit o’ bark she gev me, an’ go to the churchyard on Halloween, an’ take the first chilla-ca-pooka (snail) I found on a tombshtone, an’ begob, it was that same job that was like to be the death o’ me, it bein’ dark an’ I bendin’ to look clost, a hare jumped in me face from undher the shtone. ’Jagers,’ says I, an’ me fallin’ on me back on the airth an’ the life lavin’ me. ’Presince o’ God be about me,’ says I, for I knewn the inchantmint wasn’t right, no more I oughtn’t to be at it, but the hare was skairt like meself an’ run, an’ I found the shnail an’ run too wid the shweat pourin’ aff me face in shtrames. "So I put the shnail in a plate that I covered wid another, an’ av the Sunday, I opened it fur to see phat letters it writ, an’ bad luck to the wan o’ thim cud I rade at all, fur in thim days I cudn’t tell A from any other letther. I tuk the plate to Misther O’Callighan, fur he was a fine scholar an’ cud rade both books an’ writin’, an’ axed him phat the letters was. "’A-a-ah, ye ignerant gommoch,’ says he to me, ’yer head’s as empty as a drum. Sure here’s no writin’ at all, only marks that the shnail’s afther makin’ an’ it crawlin’ on the plate.’ "So I axplained the inchantmint to him, an’ he looked a little closter, an’ thin jumped wid shurprise.