"You guessed it?" she cried. She didn't seem to think it so obvious as
Kate's laugh indicated.

"You don't leave a thing to the imagination in that direction," Kate
cried. "Irish? As Irish as the shamrock! Go on."

"Dear me, I want to begin so far back! You see, I don't merely belong to
modern Ireland. I'm--well, I'm traditional. At least, Great-Grandfather
Cartan, who came over to Wisconsin with a company of immigrants, could
tell you things about our ancestors that would make you feel as if we
came up out of the Irish hills. And great-grandfather, he actually
looked legendary himself. Why, do you know, he came over with these
people to be their story-teller!"

"Their story-teller?"

"Yes, just that--their minstrel, you understand. And that's what my
people were, 'way back, minstrels. All the way over on the ship, when
the people were weeping for homesickness, or sitting dreaming about the
new land, or falling sick, or getting wild and vicious, it was
great-granddaddy's place to bring them to themselves with his stories.
Then when they all went on to Wisconsin and took up their land, they
selected a small beautiful piece for great-grandfather, and built him a
log house, and helped him with his crops. He, for his part, went over
the countryside and was welcomed everywhere, and carried all the
friendly news and gossip he could gather, and sat about the fire nights,
telling tales of the old times, and keeping the ancient stories and the
ancient tongue alive for them."

"You mean he used the Gaelic?"