"That," said the Philosopher, "may be accounted for
in three ways--firstly, there is a lack of cerebral con-
tinuity: that is, faulty attention; secondly, it might be
due to a local peculiarity in the conformation of the skull,
or, perhaps, a superficial instead of a deep indenting of
the cerebral coil; and thirdly--"

"Did you ever hear," said Meehawl, "of the man that
had the scalp of his head blown off by a gun, and they
soldered the bottom of a tin dish to the top of his skull
the way you could hear his brains ticking inside of it for
all the world like a Waterbury watch?"

"I did not," said the Philosopher. "Thirdly, it
may--"

"It's my daughter, Caitilin, sir," said Meehawl hum-
bly. "Maybe she is lying in the butt of a ditch and the
crows picking her eyes out."

"What did she die of?" said the Philosopher.

"My wife only put it that maybe she was dead, and
that maybe she was taken by the fairies, and that maybe
she went away with the travelling man that had the
musical instrument. She said it was a concertina, but I
think myself it was a flute he had."

"Who was this traveller?"