“Have you thought of everything, Molly?” asked he, more mildly. “I think so, Sir. There’s to be twenty-eight at the wake--twenty-nine, if Mr. Rafter comes; but we don’t expect him--and Father Lowrie would make thirty; but we’ve plenty for them all.” “And when will this--this feasting--take place?” “The night before the funeral, by coorse,” said the woman. “And they will all leave this the next morning, Molly?” “Indeed I suppose they will, Sir,” said she, no less offended at the doubt than at the inhospitable meanness of the question. “So be it, then!” said he, with a sigh. “I have nothing more to say.” “You know, Sir,” said she, with a great effort at courage, “that they’ll expect your Honour will go in for a minute or two--to drink their healths, and say a few words to them?” He shook his head in dissent, but said nothing. “The Hogans is as proud a stock as any in Mayo, Sir,” said she, eagerly, “and if they thought it was any disrespect to her that was gone----” “Hold your tongue, woman,” cried he, impatiently. “She was my wife, and _I_ know better what becomes her memory than these ignorant peasants. Let there be no more of this;” and he closed the door after her as she went out, and turned the key in it, in token that he would not brook more disturbance. CHAPTER II. A YACHTING PARTY. In a beautiful little bay on the north-east of Innishmore, land-locked on all sides but the entrance, a handsome schooner yacht dropped her anchor just as the sun was setting. Amidst the desolate grandeur of those wild cliffs, against which the sea surged and plashed till the very rocks were smooth worn, that graceful little craft, with her tall and taper spars, and all her trim adjuncts, seemed a strange vision. It was the contrast of civilisation with barbarism; they were the two poles of what are most separated in life--wealth and poverty.