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F YOU were to get up with the sun and ride with the same for twenty-four hours, it is a well-known fact that you would not find a more curious place or a more inquisitive people. The cares of the world lay lightly on them in Carney, and they would sooner that oodness sent them a bit of gossip than a goose; any lay. Though the sun was shining and the corn shaking, they would stick their spade in the ridge, or their hook in the hintin, and hurry together to debate the latest news of the neighborhood. Patrick Monoghan, of the Back of the Hill, said that a solitary crow couldn’t fly over Carney but it would aggravate the inhabitants to know where the dickens it was going, and what the dickens was its errand, anyhow. But even when stripped of the fanciful trimmings -that were tacked on to them, when the doings and sayings of Carney were carried wide on the wings of rumor, still the hard fact remained that the curiosity of Carney was not to be matched, though you screened the world from Farranfleuch to Fiddler's Green on the hither side of Godspeed. And this curiosity reached its climax when Terry Connolly fetched home a new wife—and brought her all the way front Connaught, too. Now, if Terry didn’t live in Carney, he was—as porringer of buttermilk ray Aunt Susy’s wee Mary got from you last Tuesday was four weeks.” But of all the comers and goers that thronged the cassey to Terry’s door, PheTimy Brady was undoubtedly the most constant. And the number of absolutely necessary errands he felt forced to bear to Terry’s, within those three days, marked Phelimy as a man of no common talent. Yet, notwithstanding all their praiseworthy endeavors, when the good people of Carney met in conclave each night, not in the best of humor, they were again and again compelled to admit to themselves that Terry Connolly’s new wife, from Connaught, was still a riddle, and aggravat- ingly reticent; having persistently refused, not only to rise to the occasion when Phelimy Brady had put to her pertinent questions bearing upon her dowry, her history, and the history of her family, but even to be drawn into the most apparently guileless con versation that Sally McGrath, the deepest-minded woman in Carney, could devise. Now, this was all the natural shyness of a blush ing young bride who had only just left her father's hearth, and entered a strange state and come into a strange country among strange people; but Phelimy Brady, with the hearty backing of Sally McGrath, gave voice to the universal sentiment in Carney when he said that Terry’s new wife took entirely too much of the Connaught cuteness with her "down “And a fine brave woman, too/ said Phelimy,' and he watched MaUcby now very close. “A fine, brave woman—so far as we have seen of lief.' . “Ay!” said Malachy, "a fine, brave woman, in troth—when one looks at her from a mile off/’ . “Ay, ay! Malachy,” said Phelimy. "Do ye mean? — Do ye mean ?” “I mean,” said Malachy, confidentially lowering his voice and looking over nis shoulder before ho went further—“I mean,” said he, “that she would be fine, brave woman surety, only " and Malachy shook his head pathetically. “Only?” said Phelimy eagerly, “only-—? “Well,’’ said Malachy, "of course, it Is not my place to be saying it, nor would I breathe it to a soul but yourself, either—knowing that a secret’s as safe with ydu as with the head of the church." 1 "Yes, yes,” said Phelimy, "it surely is. Only what, Malachy?” "Well, Phelimy,”, s?id he, "of course, we all have our little peculiarities, and maybe, if I say it, Terry’s new wife is no exception among us.” "AM" said Phelimy, "I'm sorry to hear it, Malachy. You mean to say that sh< “Well,” said Malachy,’ In still, more confidential tones, "I mean to say that”—here he tapped his fore head with his forefinger—“You know, you know/’ cautiously around both sides of the house, and, find ing the coast clear, dashed into the garden. Here, to Phelimy's further amazement, she began cutting the* most extraordinary capers and most extraordin. ary antics that he had ever witnessed in a human being. She hopped and sne jumped, and, skipped and leaped, and pranced and danced, in the most out rageous fashion. Then she attacked a stack of hay that was in the haggard. She went up one side of it like a cat and down the other side like a log. And when she had her fill of this, she raced over to a rowan tree that grew both big and high in the center of the garden and, to Phelimy’s amazement, began spieling it like a monkey till she got into the very topmost branches, where she called "cuckool" till her lungs must have been sore; for, even at that distance, Phelimy could plainly hear her. Then, finally, she turned and, crawling or tumbling—he couldn't tell which—or maybe both together, went rattling, head foremost, through the branches, and dropped in a heap on the ground. But that very minute, as good luck would have it, out of the house two men came rushing, jumped the garden wall, In still, more confidential were at her side in a’jiffy. Phelimy, in his own breathless and terribly excited state, watched them bending ovtir her for signs of life, and then hoisting her ,up between them and carrying her carefully Into the house again. And the instant his own powers and presence of mind came back to him, he jumped up from where he.sat. The hat fell off his head as he jumped; but he didn’t'mind it, and hadn’t time to look after it; for he tore off with himself over the hill,- with the speed of a moor afire, in the opposite direction from Terry’s running like a wild thing. And Carney and then the* whole country was alarmed to know what was the matter with Phelimy Brady that he went, breath less and panting, following his nose like a madman, over height and hollow, without time to say any thing to them, only wave them out of his way, and jump over those who couldn’t carry themselves out of it quick enough. And stop, or pause or draw breath, he didn’t till, panting and ganting, he reached the priest’s and besought him for the Lord's sake to go off as quick as his heels would carry him and "ive the last rites to Terry Connolly’s new wife of ’amlaraghan-^if, he added dubiously, he had the good Juck to overtake her alive. He waited a few seconds. ,at the priest's to jerk this out of him, and was off the next instant in a bee-line over the country again, as wild and as mad-lodklng as be fore, alarming and astonishing the natives, and never stopping or halting till he was nt the doctor's .and giving him, too, imperative orders to be off with him to Terry Connolly’s nc\y wife of Camlaraghan, to try if he could catch the breath in her and keep it there—though lie doubted very much if he would. "WHERE IS TI1E WOMAN WllO WENT OUT OP TUB WINDOW OF THAT ROOM, THEME?” we say—within a kick of the shin of it Just only over the river from it. and a hen’s race further. Facing Terry’s, in the kingdom of Carney itself, and half-way up the hill, just a good cuckoo's call away lived Phelimy Brady—Phelimy Rua, as wc called him, because of the fine head of red hair he had. And of all the curious folks that Carney could count there was not a lad of them all more curious than my friend Phelimy. Terry, poor fellow, had been married before—and well married, too; for his wife, who had been one of the Hannigans of Drimard, had been both mistress and master to him; made him know his place, and keep it, for a good seven years; and then died, leav ing him her blessing, a prosperous farm, and a thriving family of five, each one of them blessed with the appetite of a hawker. And after he pulled the green quilt over her, he gave hit curious neigh bors of Carney the benefit of two years' match making for him. At tne end of that time he hoisted himself off one Monday morning, early—whither no man knew. Carney noticed that lie had on him the new pair of homespun trousers he had been nagging Micky the tailor tor during the last ten days; that he wore the loan of Dona I a-Donel’s black frock and had bor rowed Jimminy Haraghy’s speckled mare. But Car ney had concluded, on good grounds, that he was off to the fair of Belcoo to purchase a venture of donkeys. When Terry returned, as the day was waning, on the Thursday after, without a venture of donkeys, but with a much nobler investment, a black-haired, brown-eyed Connaught wife, riding side-saddle on a pillion behind him, the eye* of Phelimy Brady, and through him all the eyes in Carney, opened wide in wonderment, I assure you. And there was auch a confusion of tongues round about the country that night as hasn’t been heard in any other country, before or since, saving at the building of BabeL To make matters worse, Terry Connolly never invited his neighbors of Carney to the drag-home. He did the thing in a disgracefully quiet way; hav ing only Donal a-Donel, Jimminy Haraghy, and two or three other immediate neighbors, to whom he absolutely owed the treat in token of favors re ceived. And when, that night, its trusty scouts brought back this news to Carney, it first shook its head, and then hopefully prophesied the height of ill-luck rising out of this unadvised and ill-omened alliance. Then it cheerfully set itself down to watch and wait for the certain fulfillment of the prophecy. On that very day, as well as the day aft*r. and the day after that again, by a most remarkable coincidence, there was not a family in the length and breadth of Carney that had not to despatch one or more of its members to Terry Connolly’s, over the river, on an errand, or errands, of various degrees of importance, from that of "borrowing the loan of a hay-rope to tie down the thatch on the back of Uncle John’s,” to "paying back the loan of the pie of the T>lack North. "But God grant/’ Sally said with bitter piety, "that it may turn out well for him. Everyone of us would not wish ill to his mother’s son." And all Carney bowed its head and said, with pious aggravation, "Amen to that. Sally McGrath." "We will wait," Sally said resignedly, “and see what we will see." And all Carney said "Ay, ay!” So they waited, but not exactly in inaction. It was a trying time for Carney—a trying time indeed. So, little wonder that Phelimy Brady and all Carney hailed with delight the advent of Malachy Murrin, the tailor, with his journeyman. For Terry Connolly conceived the very charitable idea of hav ing all his household reclothed and reshod. J And accordingly, as was the custom in those days he sent for the tailor and the shoemaker to attend his house for a week and fit out his five children and himself in clothes and shoes. "And now,” said Phelimy and all Carney, "we will soon know the ins and outs about Terry Con nolly’s new wife; for, not to mention Neddy Brogan, the shoemaker, Malachy Murrin will not have bowed his legs for many hours upon Terry’s table till Terry’s new wife will be like a drapers window to him. He will have seen her through and through, and turned her inside out, and know her by heart like a ha’penny book”—for a slyer or cuter fel low than Malachy was pot within the barony. And the heart of Phelimy and Carney was rejoiced. Phelimy abused himself for his stupid mismanage ment in allowing Malachy Murrin to escape home from his work on the first night without having in tercepted and interviewed him, but to make amends, he was on the hill early next morning, watching for Malachy; and he was rewarded, for he succeeded in capturing him as he leaped the marsh-ditch into Long John Meehan’s land. It is as well to say that Malachy, for all his unconscious air. knew the very thoughts that were stirring just at tnis time in poor Phelimy’s heart; for Terry Connolly had, on the day before, made him well aware of the present curiosity of Carney. Phelimy, who always flattered himself as the one great diplomat of the parish, fell into casual con versation with Malachy, and gradually worked up to his point in a manner that he conceived to be a triumph of adroitness. "An’ ye tell me now, Malschy,” said he when he had got that far, "that it’s beyond in Terry’s ye are, making clothes for the childer. Weil, well, well, there’s me for yel and me understanding that it was in the UDpcr end of the parish you were, at John Pat Hude’s. fitting out John Pat's son for the States.” "Och,” said Malachy, "it's a week since I left John Pat’s. I came to Terry’s yesterday morning.” "And Terry,” Phelimy casually remarked, “has fetched home a new wife?" "So he has,” said Malachy, "Ah! a wee bit off her head, poor woman?" said Phelimy. "At times,” said Malachy, “at times. An’ you see, j it is now at the change of the moon. My own no tion is, that though she is a trifle strange in her ways these days, she’s maybe as right as you or me or any other sane man in the parish atween timek.” "God help the craturc," Phelimy said with genu ine sympathy now, "and God help poor Terry." "Amen," said Malachy. "Phelimy,” said he, "mind you are not to breathe a word of that to man ot mortal.” "Is It me breathe it?” said Phelimy with high indig nation. "And, moreover,” said Malachy, "as you are work ing the hill facing us, and have the house under your eye all day long, if you happen to see any- thing odd pass—as maybe you will; for we bad big work confining her to her room yesterday and keep ing her from going abroad—please put your foot on It." "Malachy/* said he, "trust Phelimy Brady for that." t Phelimy, though he was bursting with the great news, hurried up his own hillside and took his spade in hand with the resolve, to-day, of overtaking ail the work he let slip him yesterday evening while he watched in vain for Malachy Murrin. And he was firmly determined on it that a word of the news about Terry’s new wife he would not breathe to man or mortal, inside the parish or outside of it, until after he had got his good day’s work done. But the wonder, whether Terry’s new wife would elude them to-day and get out-of-doors In spite of them, made his eyes go wandering to Terry’s domi cile beyond oftener than was good for the progress of his labor. And the house had now such a fascina tion for his eyes that the longer he continued try ing to work the less work he found he could do, till, after an hour’s vain endeavor, he laid down the spade on the ridge and sat upon it, fixing his gaze upon Terry's. lie was all the more watchful of it, inasmuch as he had seen Terry himself quitting the house, and going out over the hill half an hour before. For, though the house was too far from him to make out a man’s features, Phelimy could recognize Terry’s half-limp as far as he could see him. So, Terry having gone, Phelimy rightly imagined th*} the watch upon the new wife might relax, and she make a burst And, before another half-hour went by, Phelimy clapped himself on his back for his cleverness, and had his patience well and richly rewarded. The gable of Terry Connolly’s house faced him, and in this gable was a window. After a time Phelimy, whose eyes took in everything, observed the sash of this window go suddenly up, and next instant a woman leap out. The leap was a fairly deep one, •}>« fell forward on her hands and knees. And Phelimy was at once pained and astounded and he caught his breath. But he watched for the next COPYRIGHT, tfi loved to sit and look at other* t , were sitting Won t yous have eaiti, gentlemen? Get tip out of that, Micky Dorrian, and you, Hugh Hegarty, and that third numbskull of yours, and give the gentle men saits. And Piielimy Brady, too, 1 ’ says he. "I hope you and your care are all well, Phelimy; and where i» your hat?” Phelimy, who was not a little stunned at such coolness in a house of sudden death, said: Malachy, these gintlemen have come to see Mrs. Connolly. Let them see her at once—or, is she alivo yet?” "is she what? Alive)" said Malachy. "What would ail her if she wouldn’t be alive? Certainly, S ntlemcn, yous can see her immediately. She’s in e room here, behind me; for, as she’a an uncom mon shy woman, and a stranger among us yet, she keeps close up in this room, doing her sewing and darning whenever Terry's from home, as he is now.” And the room Malachy indicated, be it noted, was not the one from which Phelimy had «ecn the woman emerge that morning. Malachy, without moving from where he sat, simply stretched back his arm ami tapped with his thimbled finger upon the room door, saying, "Mrs. Connolly, if you would be so kind as to come down here, there's Father Pat and several other gentlemen wishful to see you.” And immediately the room door opened, and Mrs. Connolly, a blushing and pretty woman, and the f deture, indeed, of life and health, stepped down rom the room and courtesied moircstly to Father Pat, as representative of the gathering. But show ing through her modesty was a look oi inquiring wonder also at seeing so many strangers suddenly, thronging into her house. And if there was wonder In Mrs. Connolly’s face, |t would be no untruth to say that there was aston ishment in the face* of Father Pat and his con freres. From the blushing bride they turned their eyes upon a thunderstruck Phelimy Brady; and Phelimy Brady, on his part turned his eyes upon Malachy Murrin. But, behold ye! Malachy, a model among tailors, was plying his needle and humming, all oblivious of the presence of strangers. "Malachy,” said Phelimy: and Malachy, staying hi* needle in its course, looked up deferentially. "Malachy,’’said Phelimy, "where is the woman that went out of the window of that room, there, not an hour gone, and cut all the capers in the garden, run up and down the hay stack, and then broke her neck off the rowan tree?” Malachy’s eyes were growing gradually wider «• Phelimy proceeded. When Phelimy had finished ho kept his eyes still on him for another minute, exam ining him narrowly, and then, lifting them oft Phelimy, he turned them appealingly on the band of neighbors, who stood near the door, and ho*|ud to them reproachfully, "Boys, isn’t it a shame for yous to let Phelimy go abroad when he’s in this way?, Father Pat,” he then said, turning to the priest, "don’t put store upon poor Phelimy. He’s tho sensiblcst man and the best-hearted aowl in Carney, and'the most truthful—when he’s himself. Take him home, boys,” said he, turning again to tho ’neighbors, “and look out for his hat for him wlirre- ever he dropped it, as yous go. Don’t let Nellie •cold him. Take off his brogues and socks, and give his feet a good bathe, over the knees, in hot water, and put him in bed. Now, Phelimy, don’t get rum- • bunctious, or the boys’ll have to carry yc home. Take my advice, moreover—and, bather Pat, I wish, by virtue of your office, you would give him tho good advice, too—not to have anything to do with the drink, barrin’ of a very special occasion; for the Lord knows it doesn't do well with ye. That’s It, boys; that’s it, boys. Take you that foreleg, Shan Ilaig, and John Andy take the other. Feet fore most, boys. That's the way. Take care of the door. Now yous Is all right. Don't leave him, boys, till yous have him safe in bed and sound asleep. Good morning to yourself, Father Pat, an' I’m sorry yon let that poor fellow give you this wild-goose coalm an’ you doctor, too—an’ you, Mr. MacLarnin. Good mornin' to all of yous, an’ in troth I’m sorry! But I thought everyone knew the sort of poor Phelimy If he indulged ever so little.” Phelimy’s many kind neighbors, notwithstanding that he strenuously protested, not merely with his tongue but with his hands and both his feet, carried out Malachy's instructions to the letter—carried them out all the more persistently because of Phe- limy'i rumbunctiousneis. as Malachy termed it. They bathed bis feet in hot water, and they, bathed *'IS XT UK BREATHE IT?” SAID mELIIlYTlM HIGH INDIGNATION And then—for Fhclimy wa» a man who never did things by halves—he struck a line for the magis trate’s, and burst into that gentleman's presence with small ceremony, nearly choking him with the bit was in his throat—for the magistrate was just in the middle of his dinner at the time—Phelimy ordered him to be up and off, for that Terry Con nolly’s new wife was killed in Camlaraghan. and it was his duty to be there immediately and either take her dying depositions, or, if she waa past that then saddle the blame on the right shoulders. And without any delay, as fast as he had told them, the priest, and the doctor, and the magistrate had saddled and bridled and were scurrying over the country. And Phelimy himself was taking the ditches and hedges and all aorta of near-cuts over hill and hollow, to try to be there as soon as they. And, as Phelimy returned, the alarmed people, whom he had left thunderstruck on his forward journey, how closed in after, and followed him fast on the backward one; and, in bits and scraps which Phelimy deigned to throw over his shoulder as he flew, they, to their Increased consternation, managed to learn what the gist of the matter was, and then they ran harder than before. Phelimy and his following reached the house just as the priest and doctor and magistrate, who had met together on the way, arrived also. With hia natural politeness Phelimy gave them precedence- waited for them to pass in of the door first, and then went in himself at their heels, with a large repre sentation of the neighbors following. When they entered, Neddy Brogan, the shoe maker was industriously pegging away at a pair of brogues for Jimmy, the eldest of Terry’a children, and Malachy Murrin, with his journeyman on the table, was working as Intently and conscientiously as he never worked before, and two or three of the usual gentlemen-of-leisure of the neighborhood, who 1 ■ - •- • • • • -kfnff, *“* ig on • form against the wall. All of them looked an when the invasion flowed into the house, Malachy Murrin’s eyes spoke politely repressed in quiry as he said: "You are welcome, Father Pat, and gentlemen all. Isn’t this a beautiful morning, glory be to good ness for it, and a fine day for getting in the teed? •waea his head in cold, and they put him into bed, and held him down there, notwithstanding hia struggle*, till he slept of the very exhaustion; then besought NelUe not to say'a bad word to him, for this time, but to be kind and apeak to him fair, and they went home. .... The curiosity of Carney regarding Terry Con nolly’s new wife did not abate, but the curiosity ol the very much humiliated Phelimy Brady did. The next time that he met Malachy Murrin tho Utter proceeded to upbraid him sympathetically. "Well, Malachy,” said Phelimy, "I’m downright sorry; for I could have •’orn, on all the books in Christendom, that I taw the thing happen beforo my eyes. But do you know, the curiousest thing of the whole lot la that, If I was put on my Biblo oath. I couldn’t remember taking anything that day.” "Ah.” said Malachy, with an indulgent smile as fie passed on, “sure that's the way with all of u*— after.” v Next Week! a Modern Sir Galahad ~ a ph •*'4 '.m By Albert Bigelow Paine