“Excellently argued,” said the priest.

“Or rather one don’t, for it’s impossible to get at them.  But I’ll tell you what, Father Marty,”—­Neville had already assumed the fashion of calling the priest by his familiar priestly name, as strangers do much more readily than they who belong to the country,—­“I’ll tell you what, Father Marty,—­I’ve shot one of the finest seals I ever saw, and if Morony can get him at low water, I’ll send the skin up to Mrs. O’Hara.”

“And send the oil to me,” said the priest.  “There’s some use in shooting a seal.  But you can do nothing with those birds,—­unless you get enough of their feathers to make a bed.”

This was in October, and before the end of November Fred Neville was, after a fashion, intimate at the cottage.  He had never broken bread at Mrs. O’Hara’s table; nor, to tell the truth, had any outspoken, clearly intelligible word of love been uttered by him to the girl.  But he had been seen with them often enough, and the story had become sufficiently current at Liscannor to make Lady Mary Quin think that she was justified in sending her bad news to her friend Lady Scroope.  This she did not do till Fred had been induced, with some difficulty, to pass a night at Castle Quin.  Lady Mary had not scrupled to ask a question about Miss O’Hara, and had thought the answer very unsatisfactory.  “I don’t know what makes them live there, I’m sure.  I should have thought you would have known that,” replied Neville, in answer to her question.

“They are perfect mysteries to us,” said Lady Mary.

“I think that Miss O’Hara is the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life,” said Fred boldly, “and I should say the handsomest woman, if it were not that there may be a question between her and her mother.”

“You are enthusiastic,” said Lady Mary Quin, and after that the letter to Scroope was written.

In the meantime the seal-skin was cured,—­not perhaps in the very best fashion, and was sent up to Miss O’Hara, with Mr. Neville’s compliments.  The skin of a seal that has been shot by the man and not purchased is a present that any lady may receive from any gentleman.  The most prudent mamma that ever watched over her dovecote with Argus eyes, permitting no touch of gallantry to come near it, could hardly insist that a seal-skin in the rough should be sent back to the donor.  Mrs. O’Hara was by no means that most prudent mamma, and made, not only the seal-skin, but the donor also welcome.  Must it not be that by some chance advent such as this that the change must be effected in her girl’s life, should any change ever be made?  And her girl was good.  Why should she fear for her?  The man had been brought there by her only friend, the priest, and why should she fear him?  And yet she did fear; and though her face was never clouded when her girl spoke of the new comer, though she always mentioned Captain Neville’s name as though she herself liked the man, though she even was gracious