s, liked to weigh his words before giving them utterance.

"Is it Mister Dinis changed?" he repeated at last. Then almost
immediately he corrected himself. "Sure, 'tis Mister Asshlin I ought to
be sayin', sir. But the ould name slips out. Though the poor master is
gone these twenty-nine year--the Lord have mercy on him!--I can niver
git it into me head that 'tis to Mister Dinis we ought to be lookin'."

More than once during his brief stay in Ireland, Milbanke had been
confronted with this annihilation of time in the Irish mind, and
Burke's statement aroused no surprise.

"Has he changed?" he asked again in his dry, precise voice.

Burke was silent while the mare pulled hard on the reins. And having
regained his mastery over her, he looked down on his companion.

"Is it changed?" he said. "Sure, why wouldn't he be changed? With the
father gone--an' the wife gone--an' the children growin' up. Sure 'tis
changed we all are, an' goin' down the hill fast--God help us!"

Milbanke glanced up sharply.

"Children?" he said. "Children?"

Burke turned in his seat.

"Sure 'tisn't to have the ould stock die out you'd be wantin'?" he
said. "You'd travel the round of the county before you'd see the like
of Mister Dinis's children--though 'tis girls they are."

"Girls?" Milbanke's mind was disturbed by the thought of children.
Denis Asshlin with children! The idea was incongruous.

"Two of 'em!" said Burke laconically.

"Dear me!--dear me! And yet I suppose it's only natural. How old are
they?"

Burke flicked the mare lightly, and the trap lurched forward.

"Miss Clodagh is turned fifteen," he said, "and the youngster is goin'
on ten. 'Twas ten year back, come next December, that she was born.
Sure I remimber it well. An' six weeks after, Mister Dinis was
followin' her poor mother to the churchyard beyant in Carrigmore. The
Lord keep us all! 'Twas she was the nice, quiet creature, and Miss
Nance is the livin' stamp of her. But God bless us, 'tis Miss Clodagh
that's her father's child." He added this last remark with a force that
at the time conveyed nothing, though it was destined to recur later to
Milbanke's mind.

"But your master?" the stranger repeated. The momentary diversion of
the children had ceased to hold him. Again the vision of
Asshlin--Asshlin the impetuous hero of past days--had risen intangible,
mirage-like and yet compelling from his native stretch of rugged
country.

But Burke made no reply. All his