old Mrs. Callaghan, at the brewery, gave way, and began to say all manner of good things, and to praise the doctor’s luck in that he had a son gifted with parts so excellent.  There was a great desire to see the Cabinet Minister in the flesh, to be with him when he ate and drank, to watch the gait and countenance of the man, and to drink water from this fountain of state lore which had been so wonderfully brought among them by their young townsman.  Mrs. Finn was aware that it behoved her to be chary of her invitations, but the lady from the brewery had said such good things of Mrs. Finn’s black swan, that she carried her point, and was invited to meet the Cabinet Minister at dinner on the day after his arrival.

Mrs. Flood Jones and her daughter were invited also to be of the party.  When Phineas had been last at Killaloe, Mrs. Flood Jones, as the reader may remember, had remained with her daughter at Floodborough,—­feeling it to be her duty to keep her daughter away from the danger of an unrequited attachment.  But it seemed that her purpose was changed now, or that she no longer feared the danger,—­for both Mary and her mother were now again living in Killaloe, and Mary was at the doctor’s house as much as ever.

A day or two before the coming of the god and the demigod to the little town, Barbara Finn and her friend had thus come to understand each other as they walked along the Shannon side.  “I am sure, my dear, that he is engaged to nobody,” said Barbara Finn.

“And I am sure, my dear,” said Mary, “that I do not care whether he is or is not.”

“What do you mean, Mary?”

“I mean what I say.  Why should I care?  Five years ago I had a foolish dream, and now I am awake again.  Think how old I have got to be!”

“Yes;—­you are twenty-three.  What has that to do with it?”

“It has this to do with it;—­that I am old enough to know better.  Mamma and I quite understand each other.  She used to be angry with him, but she has got over all that foolishness now.  It always made me so vexed;—­the idea of being angry with a man because,—­because—!  You know one can’t talk about it, it is so foolish.  But that is all over now.”

“Do you mean to say you don’t care for him, Mary?  Do you remember what you used to swear to me less than two years ago?”

“I remember it all very well, and I remember what a goose I was.  As for caring for him, of course I do,—­because he is your brother, and because I have known him all my life.  But if he were going to be married to-morrow, you would see that it would make no difference to me.”

Barbara Finn walked on for a couple of minutes in silence before she replied.  “Mary,” she said at last, “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Very well;—­then all that I shall ask of you is, that we may not talk about him any more.  Mamma believes it, and that is enough for me.”  Nevertheless, they did talk about Phineas during the whole of that day, and very often talked about him afterwards, as long as Mary remained at Killaloe.