Killesky,--for America. They had not gone away with the drafts of boys
and girls who went week after week during the Spring weather, leaving
Beragh station on their way to Liverpool with a great send-off from
friends and relatives, ending, as the train went, with cries of
lamentation that brought the other passengers to their carriage
windows, curious or sympathetic, according to their natures.

No: Judy Dowd and Bridyeen had gone off in an underhand manner, leaving
Mr. Casey, the solicitor, to dispose of the public-house and effects.
The neighbours had been rather indignant about it, and had made up
their minds as to the reason of this unsportsmanlike flitting. But by
the time they were saying to each other that Judy Dowd had a right not
to be spoiling her grand-daughter, making her pretty for the eyes of
gentlemen; that what could a girl want more than Barney Killeen, who
had a farm and an outside car, if he was sixty itself? that there was
no use humouring the fancies of girls: that they'd always known how it
would end: finally that it was well Bridyeen should be taken away
before she made a scandal in the parish--by that time the Dowds were no
more than a name and a memory.

Few people now remembered the old unhappy far-off things. Judy Dowd's
public-house in Killesky, which had been a very small affair, had made
way for Conneely's Hotel. There was not much hotel about it, but there
was quite a thriving shop, divided into two parts--one, general store,
the other public. If you were a person of importance and called at
Conneely's for refreshment you had it in "the drawing-room" upstairs,
where the Misses Conneely's drawings in chalk hung on the walls, and
their photographs adorned the chimney-piece, while their school prizes
were arranged neatly on the round table in the middle of the room,
flanking the wax flowers under a glass shade which made the centre
piece.

The Miss Conneelys had done well in the Intermediate. Their elder
brother was a priest. Father Tom's photograph was in the centre of the
chimney-piece a-top of the clock. They could play the piano and violin
and had fortunes when the time came for them to marry. Their mother
would never have permitted them to serve in the bar nor even behind the
drapery counter. They were black-haired, rosy, buxom girls, who set
the fashions in Killesky. There had been a sensation when Nora
Conneely came back from Dublin with a walking-stick, but after an
ama