“An’ not so old, nayther, O’Mahony,” she said, defiantly. “Wasn’t I married first whin I was a mere shlip of a girl?” Sister Ellen looked at Mother Agnes, and lifted up both her hands. The O’Mahony proceeded, undisturbed: “As I’ve said, you all like him. I like him too, for his own sake, and--and his father’s sake--and--But that can wait for a minute. It’s a part of the general good luck which has brought him here that he turns out to be a trained mining engineer--just the sort of a man, of all others, that Muirisc needs. He tells me that we’ve only scratched the surface of things roundabout here yet. He promises to get more wealth for us and for Muirisc out of an acre than we’ve been getting out of a townland. Malachy, go out and look for old Murphy, and if he can walk, bring him in here.” The O’Mahony composedly busied himself in filling his glass afresh, the while Malachy was absent on his quest. The others, turning their attention to the boyish-faced, blushing young man whom the speaker had eulogized so highly, noted that he sat next, and perhaps unnecessarily close, to Kate, and that she, also betrayed a suspicious warmth of countenance. Vague comprehension of what was coming began to stir in their minds as Malachy reappeared. Behind him came Murphy, who leaned against the wall by the door, hat in hand, and clung with a piercing, hawk-like gaze to the lightest movement on the master’s face. The O’Mahony rose to his feet, glass in hand. “Murphy,” he said, “I gave her to you to look after--to take care of--the Lady of Muirisc.” “You did, sir!” shouted the withered and grimy old water-rat, straightening himself against the wall. “You’ve done it well, sir,” declared The O’Mahony. “I’m obliged to you. And I wanted you in particular to hear what I’m going to say. Malachy, get a glass for yourself and give one to Murphy.” The one-armed servitor leaned gravely forward and whispered in The O’Mahony’s ear.