This was the woman of whom Mr. Redmond wrote to Mr. Parnell that she was “an active strong dame of about fifty.”  When Mr. Balfour, in Parliament, described her truly as a “decrepit old woman of eighty,” Mr. Redmond contradicted him, and accused her of being “the worse for liquor” in a public court.

“How old is your mother?” I asked her son.

“I am not rightly sure, sir,” he replied, “but she is more than eighty.”

“The man himself is about fifty,” said the sergeant; “he volunteered to go to the Crimean War, and that was more than thirty years ago!”

“I did indeed, sir,” broke in the man, “and it was from Cork I went.  And I’d be a corpse now if it wasn’t for the mercy of God and the protection.  God bless the police, sir, that protected my old mother, sir, and me.  That Mr. Redmond, sir, they read me what he said, and sure he should be ashamed of his shadow, to get up there in Parliament, and tell those lies, sir, about my old mother!” I questioned Connell as to his relations with Carroll, the man who brought him before the League.  He was a labourer holding a bit of ground under Carroll.  Carroll refused to pay his own rent to the landlord.  But he compelled Connell to pay rent to him.  When Carroll was evicted, the landlord offered to let Connell have half an acre more of land.  He took it to better himself, and “how did he injure Carroll by taking it?” How indeed, poor man!  Was he a rent-warner?  Yes; he earned something that way two or three times a year; and for that he had to ask the protection of the police—­“they would kill him else.”  What with worry and fright, and the loss of his livelihood, this unfortunate labourer has evidently been broken down morally and physically.  It is impossible to come into contact with such living proofs of the ineffable cowardice and brutality of this business of “boycotting” without indignation and disgust.

While Connell was telling his pitiful tale a happy thought occurred to the charming daughter of the house.  Mrs. Stacpoole is a clever amateur in photography.  “Why not photograph this ’hale and hearty woman of fifty,’ with her son of fifty-three?” Mrs. Stacpoole clapped her hands at the idea, and went off at once to prepare her apparatus.

While she was gone the sergeant gave me an account of the trial, which Mr. Redmond, M.P., witnessed.  He was painfully explicit.  “Mr. Redmond knew the woman was sober,” he said; “she was lifted up on the table at Mr. Redmond’s express request, because she was so small and old, and spoke in such a low voice that he could not hear what she said.  Connell had always been a decent, industrious fellow—­a fisherman.  But for the lady, Mrs. Moroney, he and his mother would have starved, and would starve now.  As for the priest, Father White, Connell went to him to ask his intercession and help, but he could get neither.”

The sergeant had heard Father White preach yesterday.  “It was a curious sermon.  He counselled peace and forbearance to the people, because they might be sure the wicked Tory Government would very soon fall!”