a plot which his
friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power had disclosed to Mrs.
Kernan in the parlour. The idea been Mr. Power's, but its development
was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stock
and, though he had been converted to the Catholic faith at the time
of his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the Church for twenty
years. He was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism.

Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an elder
colleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was very happy. People
had great sympathy with him, for it was known that he had married an
unpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard. He had set up house
for her six times; and each time she had pawned the furniture on him.

Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughly
sensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge,
natural astuteness particularised by long association with cases in the
police courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in the waters
of general philosophy. He was well informed. His friends bowed to his
opinions and considered that his face was like Shakespeare's.

When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said:

"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham."

After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few illusions
left. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that a man of her
husband's age would not change greatly before death. She was tempted to
see a curious appropriateness in his accident and, but that she did
not wish to seem bloody-minded, would have told the gentlemen that
Mr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, Mr.
Cunningham was a capable man; and religion was religion. The scheme
might do good and, at least, it could do no harm. Her beliefs were
not extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the
most generally useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of the
sacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen, but, if she was put to
it, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost.

The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said that he
had once known a similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a piece
of his tongue during an epileptic fit and the tongue had filled in
again, so that no one could see a trace of the bite.

"Well, I'm not seventy," said the invalid.

"God for