Sorra a wink o’ sleep could I get the night,” groaned the wife of O’Daly—Mrs. Fergus—“what with me man muthered, an’ me daughter drowned, an’ me nerves that disthracted ’t was past the power of hot dhrink to abate em.”

It was early morning in the reception hall of the convent. The old nuns sat on their bench in a row, blinking in the bright light which poured through the casement as they gazed at their visitor, and tortured their unworldly wits over the news she brought. The young chaplain, Father Jago, had come in from the mass, still wearing soutane and beretta. He leaned his burly weight against the mantel, smiling inwardly at thoughts of breakfast, but keeping his heavy face drawn in solemn lines to fit these grievous tidings.

The mother superior sighed despairingly, and spoke in low, quavering tones. “Here, too, no one sleeps a wink,” she said. “Ah, thin, ’t is too much sorrow for us! By rayson of our years we’ve no stringth to bear it.”

“Ah—sure—’t is different wid you,” remarked Mrs. Fergus. “You’ve no proper notion of the m’aning of sleep. Faith, all your life you’ve been wakened bechune naps by your prayer-bell. ’T is no throuble to you. You’re accustomed to ’t. But wid me—if I’ve me rest broken, I’m killed entirely. ’T is me nerves!”

“Ay, them nerves of yours—did I ever hear of ’em before?” put in Mother Agnes, with a momentary gleam of carnal delight in combat on her waxen face. Then sadness resumed its sway. “Aye, aye, Katie! Katie!” she moaned, slowly shaking her vailed head. “Child of our prayers, daughter of the White Foam, pride of the O’Mahonys, darlin’ of our hearts—what ailed ye to l’ave us?”

The mother superior’s words quavered upward into a wail as they ended. The sound awakened the ancestral “keening” instinct in the other aged nuns, and stirred the thin blood in their veins. They broke forth in weird lamentations.

“Her hair was the glory of Desmond, that weighty and that fine!” chanted Sister Ellen. “Ah, wirra, wirra!”

“She had it from me,” said Mrs. Fergus, her hand straying instinctively to her crimps. Her voice had caught the mourning infection: “Ah-hoo! Katie Avourneen,” she wailed in vocal sympathy. “Come back to us, darlint!”

“She’d the neck of the Swan of the Lake of Three Castles!” mumbled Sister Blanaid. “’T was that same was said of Grace O’Sullivan—the bride of The O’Mahony of Ballydivlin—an’ he was kilt on the strand benayth the walls—an’ she lookin’ on wid her grand black eyes—”

“Is it floatin’ in the waves ye are, ma creevin cno—wid the fishes surroundin’ ye?” sobbed Mrs. Fergus.

Sister Blanaid’s thick tongue took up the keening again. “’T was I druv her out! ‘Go ’long wid ye,’ says I, ‘an’ t’row that haythen box o’ yours into the bay’—an’ she went and t’rew her purty self in instead; woe an’ prosthration to this house!—an’ may the Lord—”

Father Jago at this took his elbow from the mantel and straightened himself. “Whisht, now, aisy!” he said, in a tone of parental authority. “There’s modheration in all things. Sure ye haven’t a scintilla of evidence that there’s annyone dead at all. Where’s the sinse of laminting a loss ye’re not sure of—and that, too, on an impty stomach?”

“Nevir bite or sup more will I take till I’ve tidings of her!’ said the mother superior.

“The more rayson why I’ll not be waiting longer for ye now,” commented the priest; and with this he left the room. As he closed the door behind him, a grateful odor of frying bacon momentarily spread upon the air. Mrs. Fergus sniffed it, and half rose from her seat; but the nuns clung resolutely to their theme, and she sank back again.

“’T is my belafe,” Sister Ellen began, “that voice we heard, ’t is from no Hostage at all—’t is the banshee of the O’Mahonys.”

The mother superior shook her head.

“Is it likely, thin, Ellen O’Mahony,” she queried, “that our banshee would be distressed for an O’Daly? Sure the grand noise was made whin Cormac himself disappeared.”

“His marryin’ me—’t is clear enough that putt him in the family,” said Mrs. Fergus. “’T would be flat injustice to me to ’ve my man go an’ never a keen raised for him. I’ll stand on me rights for that much Agnes O’Mahony.”

“A fine confusion ye’d have of it, thin,” retorted the mother superior. “The O’Dalys have their own banshee—she sat up her keen in Kilcrohane these hundreds of years—and for ours to be meddlin’ because she’s merely related by marriage—sure, ’t would not be endured.”

The dubious problem of a family banshee’s duties has never been elucidated beyond this point, for on the instant there came a violent ringing of the big bell outside, the hoarse clangor of which startled the women into excited silence. A minute later, the white-capped lame old woman-servant threw open the door.

A young man, with a ruddy, smiling face and a carriage of boyish confidence, entered the room. He cast an inquiring glance over the group. Then recognizing Mrs. Fergus, he gave a little exclamation of pleasure, and advanced toward her with outstretched hand.

“Why, how do you do, Mrs. O’Daly?” he exclaimed, cordially shaking her hand. “Pray keep your seat. I’m just playing in luck to find you here. Won’t you—eh—-be kind enough to—eh—introduce me?”

“’T is a young gintleman from Ameriky, Mr. O’Mahony by name,” Mrs. Fergus stammered, flushed with satisfaction in his remembrance, but doubtful as to the attitude of the nuns.

The ladies of the Hostage’s Tears had drawn themselves into as much dignified erectness as their age and infirmities permitted. They eyed this amazing new-comer in mute surprise. Mother Agnes, after the first shock at the invasion, nodded frostily in acknowledgment of his respectful bow.

“Get around an’ spake to her in her north ear,” whispered Mrs. Fergus; “she can’t hear ye in the other.”

Bernard had been long enough in West Carbery to comprehend her meaning. In that strange old district there is no right or left, no front or back—only points of the compass. A gesture from Mrs. Fergus helped him now to guess where the north might lie in matters auricular.

“I didn’t stand on ceremony,” he said, laying his hat on the table and drawing off his gloves. “I’ve driven over post-haste from Skibbereen this morning—the car’s outside—and I rushed in here the first thing. I—I hope sincerely that I’m in time.”

“‘In toime?’” the superior repeated, in a tone of annoyed mystification. “That depinds entoirely, sir, on your own intintions. I’ve no information, sir, as to either who you are or what you’re afther doing.”

“No, of course not,” said Bernard, in affable apology. “I ought to have thought of that. I’ll explain things, ma’am, if you’ll permit me. As I said, I’ve just raced over this morning from Skibbereen.”

Mother Agnes made a stately inclination of her vailed head.

“You had a grand morning for your drive,” she said.

“I didn’t notice,” the young man replied, with a frank smile. “I was too busy thinking of something else. The truth is, I spent last evening with the bishop.”

Again the mother superior bowed slightly.

“An estimable man,” she remarked, coldly.

“Oh, yes; nothing could have been friendlier,” pursued Bernard, “than the way he treated me. And the day before that I was at Cashel, and had a long talk with the archbishop. He’s a splendid old gentleman, too. Not the least sign of airs or nonsense about him.”

Mother Agnes rose.

“I’m deloighted to learn that our higher clergy prodhuce so favorable an impression upon you,” she said, gr............