“There ye have it!” said Cormac, bringing his hand down with emphasis on the table. “Sir, ’t is a hard thing to say, but the ingrathitude of thim O’Mahonys just passes belafe. Sure, ’t was we that made thim. What were they but poyrutts and robbers of the earth, wid no since but for raids an’ incursions, an’ burnin’ down abbeys an’ holy houses, and makin’ war on their neighbors. An’ sure, ’t was we civilized ’em, we O’Dalys, that they trate now as not fit to lace up their shoes. ’T was we taught thim O’Mahonys to rade an’ write, an’ everything else they knew in learnin’ and politeness. An’ so far as that last-mintioned commodity goes”--this with a still more meaning, sidelong glance toward the women--“faith, a dale of our labor was wasted intoirely.” Even if Kate would have taken up the challenge, the young man gave her no time. “Oh, of course,” he broke in, “I’ve heard of the O’Dalys all my life. Everybody knows about _them!_” “Luk at that now!” exclaimed Cormac, in high triumph. “Sure, ’t is Ameriky’ll set all of us right, an’ keep the old learning up. Ye’ll have heard, sir, of Cuchonnacht O’Daly, called _‘na Sgoile_, or ‘of the school’--” “What, old Cocoanut!” cried Bernard, with vivacity, “I should think so!” “’T was he was our founder,” pursued Cormac, excitedly. “An’ after him came eight-an’-twinty descindants, all the chief bards of Ireland. An’ in comparatively late toimes they had a school at Drumnea, in Kilcrohane, where the sons of the kings of Spain came for their complate eddication, an’ the princes doid there, an’ are buried there in our family vault--sure the ruins of the college remain to this day--” “You don’t mean to say you’re one of _that_ family, Mr. O’Daly?” asked Bernard, with eagerness. “’T is my belafe I’m the head of it,” responded Cormac, with lofty simplicity. “I’m an old man, sir, an’ of an humble nature, an’ I’d not be takin’ honors on meself. But whin that bye there--that bye ye howld on yer knee--grows up, an’ he the owner of Muirisc an’ its moines an’ the fishin’, wid all his eddication an’ foine advantages--sure, if it pl’ases him to asshume the dignity of _The_ O’Daly, an’ putt the grand old family wance more where it belongs, I’m thinkin’ me bones ’ll rest the aiser in their grave.” Bernard looked down with an abstracted air at the unpleasantly narrow skull of the child on his knee, with its big ears and thin, plastered ringlets that suggested a whimsical baby-caricature of the mother’s crimps. He heard Kate rise behind him, walk across the floor and leave the room with an emphatic closing of the door. To be frank, the impulse burned hotly within him to cuff the infantile head of this future chief of the O’Dalys. “I’ve a pome on the subject, which I composed last Aister Monday,” O’Daly went on, “which I’d be deloighted to rade to ye.” “Unfortunately I must be hurrying along now,” said Bernard, rising on the instant, and depositing the child on the floor. “I’m sorry, sir, but--”