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“There was Bogans living down by the brick mill when I first come here, neighbors to Flaherty’s folks,” continued Mrs. Dunleavy, more and more aggrieved. “Biddy Con’ly ought to know the Flahertys, they being her cousins. ‘T was a fine loud-talking ‘oman; sure Biddy might well enough have heard her inquiring of me, and have stepped out, and said if she knew Ann Bogan, and satisfied a poor stranger that was hunting the town over. No, I don’t know anny one in the name of Ann Bogan, so I don’t,” said Mrs. Dunleavy aloud, “and there’s nobody I can ask a civil question, with every one that ought to be me neighbors stopping their mouths, and keeping black grudges whin ‘t was meself got all the offince.”

“Faix ‘t was meself got the whack on me nose,” responded Mrs. Connelly quite unexpectedly. She was looking squarely at the window where Mrs. Dunleavy sat behind the screen of blue mosquito netting. They were both conscious that Mrs. Connelly made a definite overture of peace.

“That one was a very civil-spoken ‘oman that passed by just now,” announced Mrs. Dunleavy, handsomely waiving the subject of the quarrel and coming frankly to the subject of present interest. “Faix, ‘t is a poor day for Ann Bogans; she ‘ll find that out before she gets far in the place.”

“Ann Bogans was plinty here once, then, God rest them! There was two Ann Bogans, mother and daughter, lived down by Flaherty’s when I first come here. They died in the one year, too; ‘t is most thirty years ago,” said Bridget Connelly, in her most friendly tone.

“‘I ‘ll find her,’ says the poor ‘oman as if she ‘d only to look; indeed, she ‘s got the boldness,” reported Mary Dunleavy, peace being fully restored.

“‘T was to Flaherty’s she ‘d go first, and they all moved to La’rence twelve years ago, and all she ‘ll get from anny one would be the address of the cimet’ry. There was plenty here knowing to Ann Bogan once. That ‘oman is one I ‘ve seen long ago, but I can’t name her yet. Did she say who she was?” asked the neighbor.

“She did n’t; I ‘m sorry for the poor ‘oman, too,” continued Mrs. Dunleavy, in the same spirit of friendliness. “She ‘d the expectin’ look of one who came hoping to make a nice visit and find friends, and herself lugging a fine bundle. She ‘d the looks as if she ‘d lately come out; very decent, but old-fashioned. Her bonnet was made at home annyways, did ye mind? I ‘ll lay it was bought in Cork when it was new, or maybe ’twas from a good shop in Bantry or Kinmare, or some o’ those old places. If she ‘d seemed satisfied to wait, I ‘d made her the offer of a cup of tay, but off she wint with great courage.”

“I don’t know but I ‘ll slip on me bonnet in the afthernoon and go find her,” said Biddy Connelly, with hospitable warmth. “I ‘ve seen her before, perhaps ‘t was long whiles ago at home.”

“Indeed I thought of it myself,” said Mrs. Dunleavy, with approval. “We ‘d best wait, perhaps, till she ‘d be coming back; there’s no train now till three o’clock. She might stop here till the five, and we ‘ll find out all about her. She ‘ll have a very lonesome day, whoiver she is. Did you see that old goat ‘ating the best of me fairy-fingers that all bloomed the day?” she asked eagerly, afraid that the conversation might come to an end at any moment; but Mrs. Connelly took no notice of so trivial a subject.

“Me melons is all getting ripe,” she announced, with an air of satisfaction. “There ‘s a big one must be ate now while we can; it’s down in the cellar cooling itself, an’ I ‘d like to be dropping it, getting down the stairs. ‘Twas afther picking it I was before breakfast, itself having begun to crack open. Himself was the b’y that loved a melon, an’ I ain’t got the heart to look at it alone. Coom over, will ye, Mary?”