ilkins mansion, and knocked over a small marble slab in the
Old South Burying Ground.

If a ghost had dropped in familiarly to breakfast, the constraint and
consternation of the Bilkins family could not have been greater. How
was the astounding intelligence to be broken to Margaret? Her explosive
Irish nature made the task one of extreme delicacy. Mrs. Bilkins flatly
declared herself incapable of undertaking it. Mr. Bilkins, with many
misgivings as to his fitness, assumed the duty; for it would never do to
have the news sprung suddenly upon Margaret by people outside.

As Mrs. O'Rourke was clearing away the breakfast things, Mr. Bilkins,
who had lingered near the window with the newspaper in his hand, coughed
once or twice in an unnatural way to show that he was not embarrassed,
and began to think that may be it would be best to tell Margaret after
dinner. Mrs. Bilkins fathomed his thought with that intuition which
renders women terrible, and sent across the room an eye-telegram to this
effect, "Now is your time."

"There 's been another battle down South, Margaret," said the old
gentleman presently, folding up the paper and putting it in his pocket.
"A sea-fight this time."

"Sure, an' they 're allus fightin' down there."

"But not always with so little damage. There was only one man wounded on
our side."

"Pore man! It's sorry we oughter be for his wife an' childer, if he's
got any."

"Not badly wounded, you will understand, Margaret--not at all seriously
wounded; only a splinter in the leg."

"Faith, thin, a splinter in the leg is no pleasant thing in itself."

"A mere scratch," said Mr. Bilkins lightly, as if he were constantly in
the habit of going about with a splinter in his own leg, and found it
rather agreeable. "The odd part of the matter is the man's first name.
His first name was Larry."

Margaret nodded, as one should say, There's a many Larrys in the world.

"But the oddest part of it," continued Mr. Bilkins, in a carelessly
sepulchral voice, "is the man's last name."

Something in the tone of his voice made Margaret look at him, and
something in the expression of his face caused the blood to fly from
Margaret's cheek.

"The man's last name!" she repeated, wonderingly.

"Yes, his last name--O'Rourke."

"D'ye mane it?" shrieked Margaret--"d' ye mane it? Glory to God! O
worra! worra!"

"Well, Ezra," said Mrs. Bilking, in one of those spasms of base
ingratitude to which even the most perf