“’Twas I who composed that song, in praise of Margery’s fried eggs, which is no profane and godless ballad.  No other Father Cuddy than myself ever belonged to Innisfallen,” earnestly exclaimed the holy man.  “A hundred years!  What was your great grandmother’s name?”

“She was a Mahony of Dunlow, Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother—.”

“What, merry Margery of Dunlow your great grandmother!” shouted Cuddy; “St. Brandon help me! the wicked wench, with that tempting bottle—­why ’twas only last night—­a hundred years—­your great grandmother said you?  Mercy on us, there has been a strange torpor over me.  I must have slept all this time!”

That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the changes which occurred during his nap.  A reformation, and a serious one it was for him, had taken place.  Eggs fried by the pretty Margery were no longer to be had in Innisfallen, and, with heart as heavy as his footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga.  The rich wine of that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its monastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the remnant of his days.

The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen to this day.  Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request them to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—­so is the stone called—­remains in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indisputable evidence of the fact; and Spillane, the bugle man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did to me—­ Literary Souvenir.

* * * * *

MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

No.  XX.

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CEREMONY OF A GIRL TAKING THE VEIL.

The convent of the Esperanza enclosed within its gloomy walls one of the fairest forms that nature ever moulded.  Her name was Claudia; she had just completed her sixteenth year, and now shone forth in all the bloom of health and beauty.  Her full black eyes, and her long dark hair, which, partly concealed by her religious dress of a pensioner, escaped in flowing ringlets over her snowy shoulders, embellishing a countenance whence beamed such harmony of features and enchanting delicacy of expression, as indicated the purity and peace that reigned within.  The Esperanza soon became my favourite spot, and I felt convinced nature never formed this angel to be immured within the walls of a convent; nor would she have been destined to pass the remainder of her life in its obscure recesses, but for the unnatural avarice of her parents—­a custom still too prevalent, to secure the wealth of a family to one branch.