"Hush now, Biddy," said Michael, "it's not the O'Donoghue at all. It's the great lord we've been waiting for so long, trying to make believe he is the Phantom Prince. Maybe, for reasons of state, he don't like to reveal himself; and maybe," he added, with a sly laugh, "he don't care to make the acquaintance of his talkative mother-in-law." Mrs. More was very indignant at this supposition, and persisted in believing that the O'Donoghue, and no one else, had carried off and married her daughter,--and as time went by and brought, always in some mysterious way, good news, and now and then a handsome present, from Kathleen, she became reconciled to her marriage, and even proud of it. In her talks with her cronies, she would often speak of "her ladyship, my daughter Kathleen,"--or "my daughter, the Princess O'Donoghue." This greatly amused some of her neighbors, and they used to question and quiz her without mercy. "And why don't you go and visit your daughter, Mistress More?" asked one--"Sure they invite you." "Why, you see, Mistress Hallaghan," replied the cunning Bridget, "it's all on account of my rhumatiz--I'm thinking that the climate down there wouldn't agree with me." But Mrs. More grew yet prouder and more important than ever, when there came another letter from the O'Donoghue, bringing the good news that she was grandmother to a fine little boy. Such grand calculations as she laid on this event. "Who knows," she said, "but that the heir will break up the long enchantment and grow up a good Christian, and come back and take possession of Ross Castle, and we'll be ruled by a rale Irish Prince once more." At all these foolish anticipations Michael only laughed contemptuously; but as his efforts to find out any thing about his daughter and her husband had all failed, it was thought that he finally more than half believed in the O'Donoghue story himself, though he never owned that he did. May-day morning had come round again. It was three years since Kathleen More was carried off, and as usual, on that day, her father and mother awoke very early, for it was a sad anniversary for them. "Troth!" exclaimed Michael, "and it was a queer drame I had last night." "Ah then, avick, tell me it!" cried his wife, who was particularly curious and superstitious about dreams. "Well, then, I dramed that I paid a visit to the O'Donoghue; in his grand palace under the lake. I received my invitation by being upset in my boat, and pulled downwards by a big merman, who never let go of my coat-tails till he landed me at the palace gate. "The O'Donoghue himself met me in the hall. 'Welcome, Mr. MacCarty-Mor,' (mind that, MacCarty-Mor!) said he--'welcome kindly! Sure it's delighted I am to see you--and you are just in time for dinner.' With that a sarvent began sounding a big conch-shell, a great door was flung open, and the next thing, I found myself in an ilegant room, sitting down to dinner with a mighty genteel looking company."