He would not come into the shop though, but stood staring at the gold pots and kettles in the window outside.  I went in; and after a little hemming and hawing—­for I had never been at such a fashionable place before—­asked one of the gentlemen to let me speak to Mr. Polonius.

“What can I do for you, sir?” says Mr. Polonius, who was standing close by, as it happened, serving three ladies,—­a very old one and two young ones, who were examining pearl necklaces very attentively.

“Sir,” said I, producing my jewel out of my coat-pocket, “this jewel has, I believe, been in your house before:  it belonged to my aunt, Mrs. Hoggarty, of Castle Hoggarty.”  The old lady standing near looked round as I spoke.

“I sold her a gold neck-chain and repeating watch in the year 1795,” said Mr. Polonius, who made it a point to recollect everything; “and a silver punch-ladle to the Captain.  How is the Major—­Colonel—­General—­eh, sir?”

“The General,” said I, “I am sorry to say”—­though I was quite proud that this man of fashion should address me so.—­“Mr. Hoggarty is—­no more.  My aunt has made me a present, however, of this—­this trinket—­which, as you see, contains her husband’s portrait, that I will thank you, sir, to preserve for me very carefully; and she wishes that you would set this diamond neatly.”

“Neatly and handsomely, of course, sir.”

“Neatly, in the present fashion; and send down the account to her.  There is a great deal of gold about the trinket, for which, of course, you will make an allowance.”

“To the last fraction of a sixpence,” says Mr. Polonius, bowing, and looking at the jewel.  “It’s a wonderful piece of goods, certainly,” said he; “though the diamond’s a neat little bit, certainly.  Do, my Lady, look at it.  The thing is of Irish manufacture, bears the stamp of ’95, and will recall perhaps the times of your Ladyship’s earliest youth.”

“Get ye out, Mr. Polonius!” said the old lady, a little wizen-faced old lady, with her face puckered up in a million of wrinkles.  “How dar you, sir, to talk such nonsense to an old woman like me?  Wasn’t I fifty years old in ’95, and a grandmother in ’96?” She put out a pair of withered trembling hands, took up the locket, examined it for a minute, and then burst out laughing:  “As I live, it’s the great Hoggarty diamond!”

Good heavens! what was this talisman that had come into my possession?

“Look, girls,” continued the old lady:  “this is the great jew’l of all Ireland.  This red-faced man in the middle is poor Mick Hoggarty, a cousin of mine, who was in love with me in the year ’84, when I had just lost your poor dear grandpapa.  These thirteen sthreamers of red hair represent his thirteen celebrated sisters,—­Biddy, Minny, Thedy, Widdy (short for Williamina), Freddy, Izzy, Tizzy, Mysie, Grizzy, Polly, Dolly, Nell, and Bell—­all married, all ugly, and all carr’ty hair.  And of which are you the son, young man?—­though, to do you justice, you’re not like the family.”