“The woman he’s marrying,” said Michael, “is one by the name of Mary Nally, the same that keeps the post-office and sells tobacco and tea and suchlike.” “If he’s marrying her to-day,” said Peter Gahan, “it’s the first I heard of it.” “That may be,” said Michael, “but if you was to read less you’d maybe hear more. You’d hardly believe,” he turned to Miss Clarence with a smile--“you’d hardly believe the time that young fellow wastes reading books and the like. There isn’t a day passes without he’d be reading something, good or bad.” Peter Gahan, thoroughly disgusted, crept under the fore deck again and squirted drops of oil out of his can. Miss Clarence ought to have been interested in the fact that the young boatman was fond of reading. His tastes in literature and his eagerness for knowledge and culture would have provided excellent matter for an article. But the prospect of a royal marriage on Inishrua excited her, and she had no curiosity left for Peter Gahan and his books. She asked a string of eager questions about the festivities. Michael was perfectly willing to supply her with information; indeed, the voyage was not long enough for all her questions and his answers. Before the subject was exhausted the boat swung round a rocky point into the bay where the Inishrua harbour lies. “You see the white cottage with the double gable, Miss,” said Michael. “Well, it’s there Mary Nally lives. And that young lad crossing the field is her brother coming down for the post-bag. The yellow house with the slates on it is where the king lives. It’s the only slated house they have on the island. God help them!” Peter Gahan slowed and then stopped his engine. The boat slipped along a grey stone pier. Michael stepped ashore and made fast a couple of ropes. Then he gave his hand to Miss Clarence and helped her to disembark. “If you’re thinking of taking a walk through the island, Miss,” he said, “you’ll have time enough. There’s no hurry in the world about starting home. Two hours or three will be all the same to us.” Michael Kane was in no hurry. Nor was Peter Gahan, who had taken a pamphlet from his pocket and settled himself on the edge of the pier with his feet dangling over the water. But Miss Clarence felt that she had not a moment to lose. She did not want to miss a single detail of the wedding festivities. She stood for an instant uncertain whether she should go first to the yellow, slated house of the bridegroom or cross the field before her to the double-gabled cottage where the bride lived. She decided to go to the cottage. In any ordinary wedding the bride’s house is the scene of most activity, and no doubt the same rule holds good in the case of royal marriages. The door of the cottage stood open, and Miss Clarence stepped into a tiny shop. It was the smallest shop she had ever seen, but it was crammed from ceiling to floor with goods.