the whole matter thoroughly.  Then his sister had demurely refused to say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said about Miss Mary Flood Jones.  They were at Floodborough, living, he did not doubt, in a very desolate way,—­and quite willing, he did not doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two occasions between him and the young lady.  But how was he to do this with such work on his hands as he had undertaken?  Now that he was in Ireland, he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly.  He felt that he had two identities,—­that he was, as it were, two separate persons,—­and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion and member of Parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe.  He was aware, however, that there was a prejudice against such fulness of heart, and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant to Miss Effingham.  How was it possible that he should marry dear Mary,—­he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands!  It was not possible.  He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own.  No doubt they had been right to remove her.  But, still, as he took his solitary walks along the Shannon, and up on the hills that overhung the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and dreamed of giving up Parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble suitor,—­to Lord Chiltern, if she would take him,—­and of going to Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to press Mary to his heart.  Miss Effingham would probably reject him at last; whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without a scruple of doubt.  Dear Mary!  In these days of dreaming, he told himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love.  But, of course, such days were days of dreaming only.  He had letters in his pocket from Lady Laura Kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in earnest of giving up Parliament.

And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way.  There lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway a very eccentric old lady, one Miss Marian Persse, who was the aunt of Mrs. Finn, the mother of our hero.  With this lady Dr. Finn had quarrelled persistently ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to interfere in the management of his family,—­offering to purchase such right by favourable arrangements in reference to her will.  This the doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels.  Miss Persse was not a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money.  And now she died, leaving L3,000 to her nephew Phineas Finn.  Another sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided.  “She couldn’t have done better with it,” said