“I shall be greatly disappointed if my young friend will not stand in the gap for the old county and the old faith,” said Father O’Dowd. “How can you expect to carry him in the teeth of the overwhelming majority which the conservatives possess in this county?” asked the M.P. “Thank Heaven! we have the ballot, and now or never is the time to try its efficacy.” “Well, Mr. Fitzgerald, may I hope to meet you in St. Stephen’s?” asked my guest. “You may.” “To oppose _my_ nominee?” “Yes.” I braved even _her_ displeasure in my agony of anxiety to cross swords with my rival. “_Bravissimo!_” cried Father O’Dowd. “The day is ours. I knew you had the Fitzgerald pluck, dashed with the hot blood of the Ormondes. I look upon victory as certain. All the tenants on the De Ruthven estate are good Catholics and will vote with us—_I_ know it. All the Derryslaghnagaun people will come up to a man. Father Brady and Father Tim Duffy will work the northern side of the county; Father Quaid and Father Ted Walsh will carry the southern side; I’ll take the Ballytore district, and—but no details now; dinner, and then I’m off. We’ll send the ‘hard word’ round like wild-fire, and, Miss Mabel, you’ll see real Irish bonfires on the hills to-morrow night. Tell your friend to stay where he is, Mr. Hawthorne; for with Virgil I may say, _Animum pictura pascit inani_. Why, I feel like a war-horse: “‘My soul’s in arms, and eager for the fray.’” “What’s all this about?” asked my mother. “Allow me to present to you the Hon. Frederick Fitzgerald Ormonde, M.P.,” gaily exclaimed Father O’Dowd, informing her in a few words of what _had_ happened and what was expected to happen. “God bless my boy!” she faltered, and, bursting into tears, kissed me as if I had been in my cradle. It was a moment of fierce inner glow. I almost tasted the sweets of victory—of victory over Mabel, for whom, had I consulted my own self, I would have sacrificed anything—everything.