h night to cross his fingers,
after the old Greek orthodox fashion, and utter the words, "In the name
of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

When he saw his brother's photograph, his heart throbbed; for here, he
felt, was the unknown being in whom his mother's life was perpetuated,
with the same strange impulses, the same longings, the same resolves as
his own.

"My mother's face only I remember," he says in a letter to his sister,
Mrs. Atkinson, written from Kumamoto, "and I remember it for this
reason. One day it bent over me caressingly. It was delicate and dark,
with large black eyes--very large. A childish impulse came to me to slap
it. I slapped it--simply to see the result, perhaps. The result was
immediate severe castigation, and I remember both crying and feeling I
deserved what I got. I felt no resentment, although the aggressor in
such cases is usually the most indignant at consequences."

* * * * *

The only person with whom Mrs. Charles Hearn seems to have forgathered
amongst her Irish relations was a Mrs. Justin Brenane--"Sally Brenane,"
Charles Hearn's aunt, on the maternal side. She had married a Mr. Justin
Brenane--a Roman Catholic gentleman of considerable means--and had
adopted his religion with all the ardour of a convert. Poor, weak,
bigoted, kindly old soul! She and Mrs. Charles Hearn had the bond in
common of belonging to a religion antagonistic to the prejudices of the
people with whom their lot was cast; she also, at that time, was devoted
to her nephew Charles. Never having had a child of her own, she longed
for something young on which to lavish the warmth of her affection. The
delicate, eerie little black-haired boy, Patricio Lafcadio, became prime
favourite in the Brenane establishment at Rathmines, and the old lady
was immediately fired with the idea of having him educated at a Roman
Catholic school, and of making him heir to the ample fortune and
property in the County of Wexford left to her by her husband.

In the comfort and luxury of Mrs. Brenane's house, Mrs. Charles Hearn
found, for the first time since she had left the Ionian Islands,
something she could call a home. She enjoyed, too, in her indolent
fashion, driving in Mrs. Brenane's carriage, a large barouche, in which
the old lady "took an airing" every day, driving into Dublin when she
was at her house at Rathmines for shopping, or to the cathedral for
Mass. A curious group, th