mountain, when his niece came to him and put her mother’s letter into his hand.
‘You see, Uncle Spines,’ she said gravely, ‘mamma has at once recognised the Background of the Dream in my description of our day at Roche’s Tower.’
‘Why, of course, my dear girl; what else could you expect? If Jane had never had the dream at all, the way you go on about your own fancies would have been enough to give it her.’
‘Well, never mind, uncle, leave the dream alone; here’s Mr O’Logan, the gentleman we talked with at the table-d’hôte yesterday; I should like to know more of his views on the political question.’
O’Logan was a prominent member of the National party, who had come to the lake scenery for a few days for the benefit of his health, and happened to have his place next to our friends at the hotel dinner table. He raised his hat to Lesbia as he approached saunteringly, and the three were soon engaged in an animated discussion, of which we need only give that part which embodied this gentleman’s views.
‘No, sir,’ he continued; ‘you would be very wrong to imagine that the Irish people hate the English people. We do not, whatever a few ranters may be found to say. On the contrary, it’s my belief, sir, that the sensible and reflecting among us are aware that Ireland has derived greater benefits on the whole from the English connection than she has sustained damage. But, in any case, it is absurd to pretend that the Irish of to-day owe a grudge to England on account of ancient history. Bosh! What do we care now what wrongs Cromwell or Arthur or Noah or Adam or the first gorilla may have inflicted on the former inhabitants of this island? Our grievances are practical, sir, not romantic; we do not want to discuss history, but to be let alone to manage our own affairs. And from this point of view, we say that it
