My first glance at the Farrells convinced me the interview was a
waste of time. I was satisfied that from two such persons, nothing
to my advantage could possibly emanate. On the contrary, from their
lack of ease, it looked as though they had come to beg or borrow.
They resembled only a butler and housekeeper applying for a new
place under the disadvantage of knowing they had no reference from
the last one. Of the two, I better liked the man. He was an
elderly, pleasant-faced Irishman, smooth-shaven, red-cheeked, and
with white hair. Although it was July, he wore a frock coat, and
carried a new high hat that glistened. As though he thought at any
moment it might explode, he held it from him, and eyed it
fearfully. Mrs. Farrell was of a more sophisticated type. The lines
in her face and hands showed that for years she might have known
hard physical work. But her dress was in the latest fashion, and
her fingers held more diamonds than, out of a showcase, I ever had
seen.

With embarrassment old man Farrell began his speech. Evidently it
had been rehearsed and as he recited it, in swift asides, his wife
prompted him; but to note the effect he was making, she kept her
eyes upon me. Having first compared my name, fame, and novels with
those of Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, and Archibald Clavering
Gunter, and to the disadvantage of those gentlemen, Farrell said
the similarity of our names often had been commented upon, and that
when from my letter he had learned our families both were from the
South of Ireland, he had a premonition we might be related.
Duncannon, where he was born, he pointed out, was but forty miles
from Youghal, and the fishing boats out of Waterford Harbor often
sought shelter in Blackwater River. Had any of my forebears, he