It was at this point that Kerrigan walked into the room. “It’s a queer thing to do right after a wedding,” said the young attorney, after he had congratulated the happy couples, “but the fact is, Mr. Clancy, I am here to read a will. And as all the persons spoken of in the document are present, I will, with your permission, get down to business.” He took a neatly folded paper from his breast pocket. “The will,” he continued, “is that of the late Honora Cassidy, spinster.” “Ah! Ah!” exclaimed Clancy, striking the table with his fist; “Now we’ll know the rights av it. Faith an’ I knew Honora had money.” “So it’s Honora Cassidy that yez meant?” said O’Hara looking at Larry. Then he turned to Kerrigan. “Sure, I wur acquainted wid her in Skibereen whin I wur a young felly.” “I am aware of the fact,” returned Kerrigan, dryly. “The document reads this way: “I, Honora Cassidy, being in sound physical and mental health, do make this my last will and testament. Having remained a spinster up to this date and recognizing the emptiness and loneliness of such a state, I, in this instrument, do all in my power to prevent my half-brother’s child, Annie Clancy, from following my example. “With this end in view I bequeath all my estate, both real and personal, with Charles Mason as Trustee, to the man who marries the said Annie Clancy, on the condition that the ceremony is performed within thirty (30) days after my decease.” “Ha! An’ so yez knew av this, O’Hara!” exclaimed Clancy. “Yez knew av it an’ played me the darty trick till git yez money out av McGonagle!” “A stroke av business, Clancy,” murmured O’Hara soothingly, “A mere stroke av business, sir.” “But say, Kerrigan,” put in Larry, with great innocence, “if Annie hadn’t got married within the thirty days?--what then?” “Then,” replied the attorney, referring to the will, “the estate would have gone to the only man who ever made a proposal of marriage to the deceased--and whom she refused.” Larry had his eyes fixed upon O’Hara, who at these words, started suddenly, and sat bolt upright. “An’ who wur that, Johnnie?” asked Mrs. Clancy, who, womanlike, felt a great curiosity upon this point. “Our esteemed friend, Malachi O’Hara.” “What!” shrieked Clancy, leaping to his feet. “D’yez mane till say, Goose, me b’y, that yez made the owld harp do himself out av a fort’in?” “Not me,” said McGonagle, modestly; “it was Murphy.” O’Hara had slowly arisen, his dumpy form quivering, his face crimson with wrath. “It wur a conspiracy!” exclaimed he, thumping the floor with his cane; “a conspiracy to defraud me out av me possible roights!” “’Twur a nate bit av wurk,” cried Clancy, enthusiastically shaking his son-in-law by the hand. “An’ I forgi’ yez for my part av it. Sure, yez are all great b’ys together!” O’Hara continued to stamp about the room; Rosie wept on Jimmie’s shoulder, frightened at her father’s anger. At last the second-hand dealer grabbed up his hat and made for the door.