"That miniature," said Mrs. Hoggarty, solemnly, "was the great Mulcahy's _chef-d'oeuvre_" (pronounced _shy dewver_, a favourite word of my aunt's; being, with the words _bongtong_ and _ally mode de Parry_, the extent of her French vocabulary). "You know the dreadful story of that poor poor artist. When he had finished that wonderful likeness for the late Mrs. Hoggarty of Castle Hoggarty, county Mayo, she wore it in her bosom at the Lord Lieutenant's ball, where she played a game of piquet with the Commander-in-Chief. What could have made her put the hair of her vulgar daughters round Mick's portrait, I can't think; but so it was, as you see it this day. 'Madam,' says the Commander-in-Chief, 'if that is not my friend Mick Hoggarty, I'm a Dutchman!' Those were his Lordship's very words. Mrs. Hoggarty of Castle Hoggarty took off the brooch and showed it to him. "'Who is the artist?' says my Lord. 'It's the most wonderful likeness I ever saw in my life!' "'Mulcahy,' says she, 'of Ormond's Quay.' "'Begad, I patronise him!' says my Lord; but presently his face darkened, and he gave back the picture with a dissatisfied air. 'There is one fault in that portrait,' said his Lordship, who was a rigid disciplinarian; 'and I wonder that my friend Mick, as a military man, should have overlooked it.' "'What's that?' says Mrs. Hoggarty of Castle Hoggarty. "'Madam, he has been painted WITHOUT HIS SWORD-BELT!' And he took up the cards again in a passion, and finished the game without saying a single word. "The news was carried to Mr. Mulcahy the next day, and that unfortunate artist _went mad immediately_! He had set his whole reputation upon this miniature, and declared that it should be faultless. Such was the effect of the announcement upon his susceptible heart! When Mrs. Hoggarty died, your uncle took the portrait and always wore it himself. His sisters said it was for the sake of the diamond; whereas, ungrateful things! it was merely on account of their hair, and his love for the fine arts. As for the poor artist, my dear, some people said it was the profuse use of spirit that brought on delirium tremens; but I don't believe it. Take another glass of Rosolio." The telling of this story always put my aunt into great good-humour, and she promised at the end of it to pay for the new setting of the diamond; desiring me to take it on my arrival in London to the great jeweller, Mr. Polonius, and send her the bill. "The fact is," said she, "that the gold in which the thing is set is worth five guineas at the very least, and you can have the diamond reset for two. However, keep the remainder, dear Sam, and buy yourself what you please with it."