Every one of the score of months that had passed since these two first met, seemed to have added something to the stature of little Kate O’Mahony. She had grown, in truth, to be a tall girl for her age--and an erect girl, holding her head well in air, into the bargain. Her face had lost its old shy, scared look--at least in this particular company. It was filling out into the likeness of a pretty face, with a pleasant glow of health upon the cheeks, and a happy twinkle in the big, dark eyes. For answer, the child lifted and swung his hand, and playfully butted her head sidewise against his waist. “’Tis I that wouldn’t mind if it all came down,” she said, in the softest West Carbery brogue the ear could wish. “What!” exclaimed the other, in mock consternation. “Well, I never! Why, here’s a gal that don’t want to go to school, or learn now to read an’ cipher or nothin’! P’r’aps you’d ruther work in the lobster fact’ry?” “No, I’d sail in the boat with you,” said Kate, promptly and with confidence. The O’Mahony laughed aloud. “I guess you’d a got your fill of it yisterday, sis,” he remarked. “It’s that I’d have liked best of all,” she pursued. “Ah! take me with you, O’Mahony, whin next the waves are up and the wind’s tearin’ fit to bust itsilf. I’ll not die till I’ve been out in the thick of it, wance for all.” “Why, gal alive, you’d a-be’n smashed into sausage-meat!” chuckled the man. “Still, you’re right, though. They ain’t nothin’ else in the world fit to hold a candle to it. Egad! Some time I _will_ take you, sis!” The child spoke more seriously: “Sure, we’re the O’Mahonys of the Coast of White Foam, according to O’Heerin’s old verse, and it’s in my blood as well as yours.” “Right you are, sis!” he responded, smiling, as he added under his breath: “an’ mebbe a trifle more.” Then, after a moment’s pause, he changed the subject. “See here; you’re up on these things--in fact, they don’t seem to learn you anything else--hain’t I heerd O’Daly tell about the old O’Mahonys luggin’ round a box full o’ saints’ bones when they went on a rampage, to sort o’ give ’em luck! I got to thinkin’ about it last night after I went to bed, but I couldn’t jest git it straight in my head.” “It’s the _cathach_” (she pronounced it _caha_) “you mane,” Kate answered. “Sometimes it contained bones, but more often ’twas a crozieror a holy book from the saint’s own pen, or a part of his vest-mints.” “No; I like the bones notion best,” said The O’Mahony. “There’s something substantial an’ solid about bones. If you’ve got a genuine saint’s bones, it’s a thing he’s bound to take an interest in, an’ see through; whereas, them other things--his books an’ his clo’se an’ so on--why, he may a-been sick an’ tired of ’em years ’fore he died.” It was the girl’s turn to laugh.