me!"

"Her chance?" I asked, somewhat puzzled, for dinners, even Castle
dinners, are not rare in Salemina's experience.

"Yes, her chance," repeated Benella mysteriously; "you'd know well
enough what I mean, if you'd ben born and brought up in Salem,
Massachusetts!"

* * * * *

Copy of a letter read by Penelope O'Connor, descendant of the King of
Connaught, at the dinner of Lord and Lady Killbally at Balkilly Castle.
It needed no apology then, but in sending it to our American friends, we
were obliged to explain that though the Irish peasants interlard their
conversation with saints, angels, and devils, and use the name of the
Virgin Mary, and even the Almighty, with, to our ears, undue familiarity
and frequency, there is no profane or irreverent intent. They are
instinctively religious, and it is only because they feel on terms of
such friendly intimacy with the powers above that they speak of them so
often.

At the Widdy Mullarkey's,
Knockarney House, Ballyfuchsia,
County Kerry.

Och! musha bedad, man alive, but it's a fine counthry over here, and it
bangs all the jewel of a view we do be havin' from the windys, begorra!
Knockarney House is in a wild, remoted place at the back of beyant, and
faix we're as much alone as Robinson Crusoe on a dissolute island; but
when we do be wishful to go to the town, sure there's ivery convaniency.
There's ayther a bit of a jauntin' car wid a skewbald pony for drivin',
or we can borry the loan of Dinnis Rooney's blind ass wid the plain
cart, or we can just take a fut in a hand and leg it over the bog. Sure
it's no great thing to go do, but only a taste of divarsion like, though
it's three good Irish miles an' powerful hot weather, with niver a dhrop
of wet these manny days. It's a great old spring we're havin' intirely;
it has raison to be proud of itself, begob!

Paddy, the gossoon that drives the car (it's a gossoon we call him,
but faix he stands five fut nine in his stockin's, when he wears
anny)--Paddy, as I'm afther tellin' you, lives in a cabin down below
the knockaun, a thrifle back of the road. There's a nate stack of turf
fornint it, and a pitaty pot sets beside the doore, wid the hins and
chuckens rachin' over into it like aigles tryin' to swally the smell.

Across the way there does be a bit of sthrame that's