“This is the proudest day of my life.  It’s the day I’ve worked for and slaved for and saved for, and it’s come to pass at last.”

There was another chorus of applause.

“What’s that you were saying in church, Mr. Curphy, sir?  Time brings in its revenges?  It does too.  Look at me.”

My father put his thumbs in the arm-pits of his waistcoat.

“You all know what I am, and where I come from.”

My husband put his monocle to his eye and looked up.

“I come from a mud cabin on the Curragh, not a hundred miles from here.  My father was kill . . . but never mind about that now.  When he left us it was middling hard collar work, I can tell you—­what with me working the bit of a croft and the mother weeding for some of you—­some of your fathers I mane—­ninepence a day dry days, and sixpence all weathers.  When I was a lump of a lad I was sworn at in the high road by a gentleman driving in his grand carriage, and the mother was lashed by his . . . but never mind about that neither.  I guess I’ve hustled round considerable since then, and this morning I’ve married my daughter into the first family in the island.”

There was another burst of cheering at this, but it was almost drowned by the loud rattling of the rain which was now falling on the lantern light.

“Monsignor,” cried my father, pitching his voice still higher, “what’s that you were saying in Rome about the mills of God?”

Fumbling his jewelled cross and smiling blandly the Bishop gave my father the familiar quotation.

“Truth enough, too.  The mills of God grind slowly but they’re grinding exceeding small.  Nineteen years ago I thought I was as sure of what I wanted as when I got out of bed this morning.  If my gel here had been born a boy, my son would have sat where his lordship is now sitting.  But all’s well that ends well!  If I haven’t got a son I’ve got a son-in-law, and when I get a grandson he’ll be the richest man that ever stepped into Castle Raa, and the uncrowned king of Ellan.”

At that there was a tempest of cheers, which, mingling with the clamour of the storm, made a deafening tumult.

“They’re saying a dale nowadays about fathers and children—­daughters being separate beings, and all to that.  But show me the daughter that could do better for herself than my gel’s father has done for her.  She has a big fortune, and her husband has a big name, and what more do they want in this world anyway?”

“Nothing at all,” came from various parts of the room.

“Neighbours,” said my father, looking round him with a satisfied smile, “I’m laying you dry as herrings in a hould, but before I call on you to drink this toast I’ll ask the Bishop to spake to you.  He’s a grand man is the Bishop, and in fixing up this marriage I don’t in the world know what I could have done without him.”

The Bishop, still fingering his jewelled cross and smiling, spoke in his usual suave voice.  He firmly believed that the Church had that morning blessed a most propitious and happy union.  Something might be said against mixed marriages, but under proper circumstances the Church had never forbidden them and his lordship (this with a deep bow to my husband) had behaved with great liberality of mind.