"She was a Mahony of Dunlow, Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother--."

"What, merry Margery of Dunlow your great grandmother!" shouted Cuddy;
"St. Brandon help me! the wicked wench, with that tempting bottle--why
'twas only last night--a hundred years--your great grandmother said you?
Mercy on us, there has been a strange torpor over me. I must have slept
all this time!"

That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the
changes which occurred during his nap. A reformation, and a serious one it
was for him, had taken place. Eggs fried by the pretty Margery were no
longer to be had in Innisfallen, and, with heart as heavy as his
footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he
embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga. The rich wine of
that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its monastic
establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the remnant of his
days.

The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy's knees may be seen to
this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request them to
go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy--so is the stone called--remains in
Lord Kenmare's park, an indisputable evidence of the fact; and Spillane,
the bugle man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did to me--
_Literary Souvenir_.

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