to him about his legal studies, he did not exactly laugh at his father’s ignorance, but he recapitulated to his father so much of Mr. Monk’s wisdom at second hand,—­showing plainly that it was his business to study the arts of speech and the technicalities of the House, and not to study law,—­that his father had nothing further to say.  He had become a man of such dimensions that an ordinary father could hardly dare to inquire into his proceedings; and as for an ordinary mother,—­such as Mrs. Finn certainly was,—­she could do no more than look after her son’s linen with awe.

Mary Flood Jones,—­the reader I hope will not quite have forgotten Mary Flood Jones,—­was in a great tremor when first she met the hero of Loughshane after returning from the honours of his first session.  She had been somewhat disappointed because the newspapers had not been full of the speeches he had made in Parliament.  And indeed the ladies of the Finn household had all been ill at ease on this head.  They could not imagine why Phineas had restrained himself with so much philosophy.  But Miss Flood Jones in discussing the matter with the Miss Finns had never expressed the slightest doubt of his capacity or his judgment.  And when tidings came,—­the tidings came in a letter from Phineas to his father,—­that he did not intend to speak that session, because speeches from a young member on his first session were thought to be inexpedient, Miss Flood Jones and the Miss Finns were quite willing to accept the wisdom of this decision, much as they might regret the effect of it.  Mary, when she met her hero, hardly dared to look him in the face, but she remembered accurately all the circumstances of her last interview with him.  Could it be that he wore that ringlet near his heart?  Mary had received from Barbara Finn certain hairs supposed to have come from the head of Phineas, and these she always wore near her own.  And moreover, since she had seen Phineas she had refused an offer of marriage from Mr. Elias Bodkin,—­had refused it almost ignominiously,—­and when doing so had told herself that she would never be false to Phineas Finn.

“We think it so good of you to come to see us again,” she said.

“Good to come home to my own people?”

“Of course you might be staying with plenty of grandees if you liked it.”

“No, indeed, Mary.  It did happen by accident that I had to go to the house of a man whom perhaps you would call a grandee, and to meet grandees there.  But it was only for a few days, and I am very glad to be taken in again here, I can assure you.”

“You know how very glad we all are to have you.”

“Are you glad to see me, Mary?”

“Very glad.  Why should I not be glad, and Barbara the dearest friend I have in the world?  Of course she talks about you,—­and that makes me think of you.”