she positively
gloated with extended palms over the bright warm, fire in the
drawing-room, and clutched at the cup of hot tea which my kind hostess
instantly ordered in for her.

This was the woman of whom Mr. Redmond wrote to Mr. Parnell that she was
"an active strong dame of about fifty." When Mr. Balfour, in Parliament,
described her truly as a "decrepit old woman of eighty," Mr. Redmond
contradicted him, and accused her of being "the worse for liquor" in a
public court.

"How old is your mother?" I asked her son.

"I am not rightly sure, sir," he replied, "but she is more than eighty."

"The man himself is about fifty," said the sergeant; "he volunteered to
go to the Crimean War, and that was more than thirty years ago!"

"I did indeed, sir," broke in the man, "and it was from Cork I went. And
I'd be a corpse now if it wasn't for the mercy of God and the
protection. God bless the police, sir, that protected my old mother,
sir, and me. That Mr. Redmond, sir, they read me what he said, and sure
he should be ashamed of his shadow, to get up there in Parliament, and
tell those lies, sir, about my old mother!" I questioned Connell as to
his relations with Carroll, the man who brought him before the League.
He was a labourer holding a bit of ground under Carroll. Carroll refused
to pay his own rent to the landlord. But he compelled Connell to pay
rent to him. When Carroll was evicted, the landlord offered to let
Connell have half an acre more of land. He took it to better himself,
and "how did he injure Carroll by taking it?" How indeed, poor man! Was
he a rent-warner? Yes; he earned something that way two or three times
a year; and for that he had to ask the protection of the police--"they
would kill him else." What with worry and fright, and the loss of his
livelihood, this unfortunate labourer has evidently been broken down
morally and physically. It is impossible to come into contact with such
living proofs of the ineffable cowardice and brutality of this business
of "boycotting" without indignation and disgust.

While Connell was telling his pitiful tale a happy thought occurred to
the charming daughter of the house. Mrs. Stacpoole is a clever amateur
in photography. "Why not photograph this 'hale and hearty woman of
fifty,' with her son of fifty-three?" Mrs. Stacpoole clapped her hands
at the idea, and went off at once to prepare her apparatus.

While she was gone the sergeant gave me an account of the trial