As a rule there is little illness, and the women often manage their confinements among themselves without any trained assistance.  In most cases all goes well, but at times a curagh is sent off in desperate haste for the Priest and the Doctor when it is too late.

The baby that spent some days here last year is now established in the house; I suppose the old woman has adopted him to console herself for the loss of her own sons.

He is now a well-grown child, though not yet able to say more than a few words of Gaelic.  His favourite amusement is to stand behind the door with a stick, waiting for any wandering pig or hen that may chance to come in, and then to dash out and pursue them.  There are two young kittens in the kitchen also, which he ill-treats, without meaning to do them harm.

Whenever the old woman comes into my room with turf for the fire, he walks in solemnly behind her with a sod under each arm, deposits them on the back of the fire with great care, and then flies off round the corner with his long petticoats trailing behind him.

He has not yet received any official name on the island, as he has not left the fireside, but in the house they usually speak of him as ‘Michaeleen beug’ (i.e. ’little small-Michael’).

Now and then he is slapped, but for the most part the old woman keeps him in order with stories of ‘the long-toothed hag,’ that lives in the Dun and eats children who are not good.  He spends half his day eating cold potatoes and drinking very strong tea, yet seems in perfect health.

An Irish letter has come to me from Michael.  I will translate it literally.

Dear noble person,—­I write this letter with joy and pride that you found the way to the house of my father the day you were on the steamship.  I am thinking there will not be loneliness on you, for there will be the fine beautiful Gaelic League and you will be learning powerfully.

I am thinking there is no one in life walking with you now but your own self from morning till night, and great is the pity.

What way are my mother and my three brothers and my sisters, and do not forget white Michael, and the poor little child and the old grey woman, and Rory.  I am getting a forgetfulness on all my friends and kindred.—­I am your friend ...

It is curious how he accuses himself of forgetfulness after asking for all his family by name.  I suppose the first home-sickness is wearing away and he looks on his independent wellbeing as a treason towards his kindred.

One of his friends was in the kitchen when the letter was brought to me, and, by the old man’s wish, he read it out loud as soon as I had finished it.  When he came to the last sentence he hesitated for a moment, and then omitted it altogether.