zed pause Killesky--the young ladies of it,--broke out in
walking-sticks.

There was enough positive about the Conneelys, the priest, the
prosperous self-satisfied girls, the managing capable mother, to make
people feel that there had always been Conneely's Hotel in Killesky.
If the old people remembered Julia Dowd's little public-house with its
thatched roof, the low ceiling and the fire of turf to which you could
draw a chair while you had your drink, the little parlour beyond which
was reserved for customers of a superior station, they did not talk
about it.

Inch too was shut up. Mrs. Comerford had gone away after Mary Creagh's
engagement to Sir Shawn O'Gara. She had taken it very ill,--as a slur
to her dead son's memory. She had always been an austere, somewhat
severe woman, but she had taken Mary Creagh from her dying mother's
arms, a child of a few weeks old, had reared her as her own and been
tender to her, with the surprising precious tenderness of a reserved,
apparently cold nature. Mrs. Comerford had gone to Italy and had never
since returned. Perhaps she would never come now, although the place
was kept from going to rack and ruin by James Clinch, the butler, and
Mrs. Clinch, who had been cook and had married the butler after Mrs.
Comerford had gone away.

All these things came back to Patsy Kenny in his solitary hours. He
was very fond of sitting on a log or a stone between his strenuous
working times, going over old days in his mind.

This June afternoon, rather wearied still by his struggle with
Mustapha, he was sitting on a block in front of his little house in the
stable-yard. Judy, a half-bred setter--the names of the animals at
Castle Talbot were hereditary--was lying at his feet. The pigeons were
pecking about him daintily. Only Judy's watchful, jealous eye
prevented their flying on to his knee or his shoulder.

The memories unfolded themselves like the scenes of a cinematograph,
slipping past his mind. He remembered Bridyeen Sweeney, whose delicate
beauty used to draw the gentlemen to Dowd's long ago. He contrasted
her in his mind with Nora Conneely whom he had met that morning as he
went to the post-office, wearing what he had heard called a Merry Widow
hat, and a tight skirt, displaying open-work stockings and high-heeled
shoes, a string of pearls about a neck generously displayed by the low
blouse she was wearing, her right hand twirling the famous
walking-stick.

"I dunno what