alled the Queen of Ireland long ago."

"Queen of Ireland--well, what then?" Dyck's voice was tuneless, his
manner rigid, his eyes burning. "Well, she--Miss Sheila Llyn and her
mother are going to the Salem Plantation, down by the Essex Valley
Mountain. It is her plantation now. It belonged to her uncle, Bryan
Llyn. He got it in payment of a debt. He's dead now, and all his lands
and wealth have come to her. Her mother, Mrs. Llyn, is with her, and
they start to-morrow or the next day for Salem. There'll be different
doings at Salem henceforward, y'r honour. She's not the woman to see
slaves treated as the manager at Salem treated 'em."

Dyck Calhoun made an impatient gesture at this last remark.

"Yes, yes, Michael. Where are they now?"

"They're at Charlotte Bedford's lodgings in Spanish Town. The governor
waited on them this morning. The governor sent them flowers and--"

"Flowers--Lord Mallow sent them flowers! Hell's fiend, man, suppose he
did?"

"There are better flowers here than in any Spanish Town."

"Well, take them, Michael; but if you do, come here again no more while
you live, for I'll have none of you. Do you think I'm entering the lists
against the king's governor?"

"You've done it before, sir, and there's no harm in doing it again. One
good turn deserves another. I've also to tell you, sir, that Lord Mallow
has asked them to stay at King's House."

"Lord Mallow has asked Americans to stay at King's House!"

"But they're Irish, and he knew them in Ireland, y 'r honour."

"Well, he knew me in Ireland, and I'm proscribed!"

"Ah, that's different, as you know. There's no war on now, and they're
only good American citizens who own land in this dominion of the king;
so why shouldn't he give them courtesy?"

"From whom do you get your information?" asked Dyck Calhoun with an air
of suspicion.

"From Darius Boland, y'r honour," answered Michael, with a smile. "Who
is Darius Boland, you're askin' in y'r mind? Well, he's the new manager
come from the Llyn plantations in Virginia; and right good stuff he is,
with a tongue that's as dry as cut-wheat in August. And there's humour
in him, plenty-aye, plenty. When did I see him, and how? Well, I saw him
this mornin', on the quay at Kingston. He was orderin' the porters about
with an air--oh, bedad, an air! I saw the name upon the parcels--Miss
Sheila Llyn, of Moira, Virginia, and so I spoke to him. The rest was
aisy. He looked me up and down in a flash,