But woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.
While the monarch but traces
Through mortal his line,
Beauty born of the Graces
Ranks next to divine.'

I asked the Reverend Father if he were descended from Galloping
O'Hogan, who helped Patrick Sarsfield to spike the guns of the
Williamites at Limerick.

"By me sowl, ma'am, it's not discinded at all I am; I am one o' the
common sort, just," he answered, broadening his brogue to make me
smile. A delightful man he was, exactly such an one as might have
sprung full grown from a Lever novel; one who could talk equally
well with his flock about pigs or penances, purgatory or potatoes,
and quote Tom Moore and Lover when occasion demanded.

Story after story fell from his genial lips, and at last he said
apologetically, "One more, and I have done," when a pretty woman,
sitting near him, interpolated slyly, "We might say to you, your
reverence, what the old woman said to the eloquent priest who
finished his sermon with 'One word, and I have done'".

"An' what is that, ma'am?" asked Father O'Hogan.

"'Och! me darlin' pracher, may ye niver be done!'"

We all agreed that we should like to reconstruct the scene for a
moment and look at a drawing-room of two hundred years ago, when the