“How came you to see her? Where was she?” asked Nelligan, eagerly. “I 'll tell you,” replied she, with all the methodical preparation by which she heralded in the least important communications,--“I 'll tell you. I was sitting here, working at the window, and wondering when the trial would be over, for the goose that was for dinner was too near the fire, and I said to myself--” “Never mind what you said to yourself,--confound the goose,” broke in old Dan, fiercely. “Faith, then, I 'd like to know if you 'd be pleased to eat your dinner on the cold loin of veal--” “But Miss Martin, mother,--Miss Martin,” urged Joe, impatiently. “I'm coming to her, if you'll let me; but when you flurry me and frighten me, I 'm ready to faint. It was last Candlemas you gave me a start, Dan, about--what was it, now? Lucky Mason's dog, I believe. No, it was the chimney took fire--” “Will you just go back to Miss Martin, if you please,” said old Nelligan, sternly. “I wish I knew where I was,--what I was saying last,” said she, in a tone of deep sorrow and contrition. “You were going to say how Miss Mary told you all about the trial, mother,” said Joe, taking her hand kindly within his own. “Yes, darling; now I remember it all. I was sitting here at the window hemming them handkerchiefs of yours, and I heard a sharp sound of a horse coming along quick, and, by the way he cantered, I said to myself, 'I know _you_,' and, sure enough, when I opened the window, there she was, Miss Mary herself, all dripping with wet, and her hat flattened on her face, at the door. “'Don't ask me to get down, Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'for I'm in a great hurry. I have to ride out to Kilkieran with this'--and she showed me a bottle she had in the pocket of her saddle. 'I only called to tell you that your son has gained another--' What was it she called it?--a victory, or a battle,--no, it was something else--” “Never mind--go on,” cried Joe; “and then?” “'But, my dear Miss Mary,' says I, 'you 're wet through and through. It's more than your life's worth to go off now another ten miles. I'll send our gossoon, Mickey Slater, with the medicine, if you 'll just come in and stay with us.' I did n't say to dinner, for I was ashamed to ask her to that. “'I should be delighted, Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'but it is impossible to-day. I 'd have stayed and asked you for my dinner,'--her very words,--'asked you for my dinner, but I have promised poor Mat Landy to go back to him. But perhaps it is as well as it is; and my aunt Dorothy might say, if she heard of it, that it was a strange choice I had made of a festive occasion,--the day on which we were beaten, and the society of him that worsted us.' “'Oh, but, Miss Mary,' says I, 'sure you don't think the worse of poor Joe--'