man in the dining-room took oath he had never said a word, and
they all spoke truth. But the women clamoured on without pausing for
wind, and refused to take word of the men-folk, who were gifted with
the power of reason. However, the vicious people defeated themselves
in time. People began to say to a lass who had been kissed only once:
"Ah, now, you would be angry because you were not getting the other
five." Everything seemed to grow quiet, and my father thought no more
about it, having thought very little about it in the first place save
enough to speak a few sharp words. But, would you believe it, there
was an old woman living in a hovel not a mile from the castle, who
kept up the scandal for twelve more months. She had never been
married, and, as far as any one knew, she had never wished to be. She
had never moved beyond Father Donovan's church in one direction and a
little peat-heap in the other direction. All her days she had seen
nothing but the wind-swept moors, and heard nothing but the sea
lashing the black rocks. I am mistaken; once she came to the castle,
hearing that my mother was ill. She had a remedy with her, poor soul,
and they poured it in the ashes when her back was turned. My mother
bade them give her some hot porridge and an old cloth gown of her own
to take home. I remember the time distinctly. Well, this poor thing
couldn't tell between a real sin and an alligator. Bony, withered,
aged, this crone might have been one of the highest types of human
perfection. She wronged nobody; she had no power to wrong. Nobody
wronged her; it was never worth it. She really was at peace with all
the world. This obeys the most exalted injunctions. Every precept is
kept here. But this tale of the Squire and the girl took root in her
head. She must have been dazzled by the immensity of the event. It
probably appealed to her as would a grand picture of the burning of
Rome or a vivid statue of Lot's wife turning to look back. It reached
the dimensions of great history. And so this old woman, who had always
lived the life of a nun, dreamed of nothing but the colossal wrong
which had come within her stunted range of vision. Before and after
church she talked of no other thing for almost eighteen months.
Finally my father in despair rode down to her little cottage.

"Mollie," said he, calling from the road, "Mollie, come out." She came
out.

"Mollie," said my father, "you know me?"

"Ay," said she, "you are The O'Rud