“And I can only say”—here he stared very hard at Mary Joyce—“that it mortifies me more than I can possibly express to you to be placed in this extremely painful position.” “Do not say one word about it,” said Mr. Joyce in a courteous tone. “With the proprietor of the 'Bodkin Arms’ I know how to deal, and with you too, Lanty Kerrigan.” Lanty wriggled in the boat till it rocked again. “But as for you, sir, all I can say is that I regret to have disturbed your fishing, and I wish you very good sport.” And he bowed with haughty politeness. “I thank you very much for your courtesy,” bowed Bingham, who had by this time landed from the boat, “but I shall no longer continue an intruder.” And seizing his rod, he snapped it thrice across his knee and flung it into the lake. It was Mary Joyce’s bright eyes that led him to this folly—he wanted to be set right with her. “Oh! how stupid,” she exclaimed, starting to her feet. “Thrue for ye, miss,” added Lanty—“two-pound tin gone like a dhrink, an’ an illigant throut into the bargain.” “A wilful man must have his way,” said Mr. Joyce; “but I hope, sir, that you will afford me an opportunity of enabling you to enjoy a day’s sport in better waters than these.” And lifting his hat, he waved an adieu as the fiery grays plunged onwards and out of sight. And Mary Joyce! Yes, that charming little head bent to him, those sweeping lashes lifted themselves that the glory of her gray eyes might be revealed to him, the rose-bud lips had dropped three perfumed petals, three insignificant little words, “Oh! how stupid”; and these were the first words in the first chapter of Percy Bingham’s first love. He found the following note awaiting him at the hotel: “KNOCKSHIN, June 28. “Mr. Joyce will be happy if Mr. Bingham will take a day on Shauraunthurga—Monday, if possible—as Mr. J. intends fishing upon that day. A salmon rod and flies are at Mr. Bingham’s disposal. “—— BINGHAM, ESQ.” Percy Bingham sent a polite acknowledgment and acceptance, and wished for the Monday. It was very late that night when the warrior returned to his quarters. He had been mooning around Mary Joyce’s bower at Knockshin. “What Masses have you here, Foxey?” asked Bingham of the waiter, whose real name was Redmond, but to whom this appellation was given on account of the color of his hair. “The last Mass is first Mass now, sir. Father James is sick, and Father Luke, a missioner, is doing duty for the whole barony.” “Is Mr. Joyce, of Knockshin, a Catholic?” This in some trepidation. “Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir—wan of the ould stock, sir; and Miss Mary, his daughter, sir, plays the harmonicum, sir, elegant.” “What hour does Mass commence?” “That’s the first bell, sir, but they ring two first bells always.”