“Well, Bryan,” said the father, “what news from Ahadarra?”

“Nothing particular from Ahadarra,” replied the son, “but our good-natured friend, Jemmy Burke, had his house broken open and robbed the night before last.”

“Wurrah deheelish” exclaimed his mother, “no, he hadn’t!”

“Well, mother,” replied Bryan, laughing, “maybe not.  I’m afeard it’s too true though.”

“An’ how much did he lose?” asked his father.

“Between seventy and eighty pounds,” said Bryan.

“It’s too much,” observed the other; “still I’m glad it’s no more; an’ since the villains did take it, it’s well they tuck it from a man that can afford to lose it.”

“By all accounts,” said Arthur, or, as he was called, Art, “Hycy, the sportheen, has pulled him down a bit.  He’s not so rich now, they say, as he was three or four years ago.”

“He’s rich enough still,” observed his father; “but at any rate, upon my sowl I’m sorry for him; he’s the crame of an honest, kind-hearted neighbor; an’ I believe in my conscience if there’s a man alive that hasn’t an ill-wisher, he is.”

“Is it known who robbed him?” asked the grandfather, “or does he suspect anybody?”

“It’s not known, of course, grandfather,” replied Bryan, “or I suppose they would be in limbo before now; but there’s quare talk about it.  The Hogans is suspected, it seems.  Philip was caught examinin’ the hall-door the night before; an’ that does look suspicious.”

“Ay,” said the old man, “an’ very likely they’re the men.  I remember them this many a long day; it’s forty years since Andy Hogan—­he was lame—­Andy Boccah they called him—­was hanged for the murdher of your great-granduncle, Billy Shevlin, of Frughmore, so that they don’t like a bone in our bodies.  That was the only murdher I remember of them, but many a robbery was laid to their charge; an’ every now and then there was always sure to be an odd one transported for thievin’, an’ house-breakin’, and sich villainy.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Mrs. M’Mahon, “but it was some o’ them tuck our two brave geese the night before last.”

“Very likely, in throth, Bridget,” said her husband; “however, as the ould proverb has it, ‘honesty’s the best policy.’  Let them see which of us I’ll be the best off at the end of the year.”

“There’s an odd whisper here an’ there about another robber,” continued Bryan; “but I don’t believe a word about it.  No, no;—­he’s wild, and not scrupulous in many things, but I always thought him generous, an’ indeed rather careless about money.”

“You mane the sportheen?” said his brother Art.

“The Hogans,” said the old man, recurring to the subject, as associated with them, “would rob anybody barrin’ the Cavanaghs; but I won’t listen to it, Bryan, that Hycy Burke, or the son of any honest man that ever had an opportunity of hearin’ the Word o’ God, or livin’ in a Christian counthry, could ever think of robbin’ his own father—­his own father!  I won’t listen to that.”