and a better landlord ain't nowhere," said Mr. O'Dwyer.

"Oh, you're one of the tenants, are you? The rents are paid pretty
well, ain't they?"

"To the day," said Mr. O'Dwyer, proudly.

"What would you think now--" Mr. Mollett was continuing; but Aby
interrupted him somewhat violently.

"Hold your confounded stupid tongue, will you, you old jolterhead;"
and on this occasion he put his hand on his father's shoulder and
shook him.

"Who are you calling jolterhead? Who do you dare to speak to in that
way? you impudent young cub you. Am I to ask your leave when I want
to open my mouth?"

Aby had well known that his father in his present mood would not
stand the manner in which the interruption was attempted. Nor did he
wish to quarrel before the publican and his daughter. But anything
was better than allowing his father to continue in the strain in
which he was talking.

"You are talking of things which you don't hunderstand, and about
people you don't know," said Aby. "You've had a drop too much on the
road too, and you 'ad better go to bed."

Old Mollett turned round to strike at his son; but even in his
present state he was somewhat quelled by Aby's eye. Aby was keenly
alive to the necessity for prudence on his father's part, though he
was by no means able to be prudent himself.

"Talking of things which I don't understand, am I?" said the old man.
"That's all you know about it. Give me another glass of that brandy
toddy, my dear."

But Aby's look had quelled, or at any rate silenced him; and though
he did advance another stage in tipsiness before they succeeded in
getting him off to bed, he said no more about Sir Thomas Fitzgerald
or his Castle Richmond secrets.

Nevertheless, he had said enough to cause suspicion. One would not
have imagined, on looking at Mr. O'Dwyer, that he was a very crafty
person, or one of whose finesse in affairs of the world it would be
necessary to stand much in awe. He seemed to be thick, and stolid,
and incapable of deep inquiry; but, nevertheless, he was as fond
of his neighbours' affairs as another, and knew as much about the
affairs of his neighbours at Kanturk as any man in the county Cork.

He himself was a Kanturk man, and his wife had been a Kanturk woman;
no less a person, indeed, than the sister of Father Bernard M'Carthy,
rest her soul;--for it was now at peace, let us all hope. She had
been dead these ten years; but he did not the less keep up his
connection with