g heavily on the cat, who, her mystic
meditations thus painfully interrupted, vanished in darkness, uttering
the baleful cry of her kind, that is so inherently opposed to the
blended forgiveness and apology that give poignancy to a dog's
reproach for a similar injury.

"Look here, Annie. Before I forget it, I want you to take the car on
Saturday--I'll want it myself to-morrow--and call upon Miss Coppinger.
Barty can drive you. I got a wire awhile ago, and I have to go on the
nine o'clock to-night to Broadhaven. It's that unfortunate Prendergast
the Member. There's nothing can be done for the poor fellow, but
whether or no, I must go."

"They'll not be satisfied till they have you dead, too, dragging at
you!" protested Mrs. Mangan. "What nonsense they have, and you there
only this morning! On earth, what can you do more for him?"

"They think more of me, my dear, than you do!" said the Doctor,
cheerfully. "Be listening, now, to what I'm saying. You're to be as
civil as be damned to old Frederica, and tell Barty he's to fix up
with Larry to come here--what day is this to-day is? Thursday?--Tell
him I'll be in on Sunday afternoon, and I want to talk to him on very
special business. Now, will you remember that?"

He repeated his commands, as people will who have learnt, as most
Doctors must learn, the fallibility of the human memory and its
infinite powers of invention and substitution.

Mrs. Mangan listened obediently and promised attention. Although in
matters to which she attached slight importance, such as the
proportions of a prescription, her memory was liable to betray her, in
other affairs, it had the cast-iron accuracy of the peasant, and
without having been privileged with the Doctor's full confidence, she
was probably deeper in it than he was aware.

While still these intentions with regard to young Mr. St. Lawrence
Coppinger were whirling in the air above him, as a lasso swirls and
circles before it secures its victim, that young man was, it is no
exaggeration to say, staggering home under the weight of his
happiness. After the sacrament at the Tober an Sidhe he and Christian
had gone from the hill, hand in hand, like two children. In silence
they had gone through the dark wood, and almost in silence had made
their mutual farewells in the fragrant shadow of the pines.

When the soul is tuned to its highest it cannot find an interpreter.
The lips can utter only broken sounds, pathetically inadequate to
e