And in this part of the world there ain't any pheasants, and so we shoot sea-gulls." "Excellently argued," said the priest.
"Or rather one don't, for it's impossible to get at them.

But I'll tell you what, Father Marty,"-- Neville had already assumed the fashion of calling the priest by his familiar priestly name, as strangers do much more readily than they who belong to the country,--"I'll tell you what, Father Marty,--I've shot one of the finest seals I ever saw, and if Morony can get him at low water, I'll send the skin up to Mrs.O'Hara." "And send the oil to me," said the priest.

"There's some use in shooting a seal.

But you can do nothing with those birds,--unless you get enough of their feathers to make a bed." This was in October, and before the end of November Fred Neville was, after a fashion, intimate at the cottage.

He had never broken bread at Mrs.O'Hara's table; nor, to tell the truth, had any outspoken, clearly intelligible word of love been uttered by him to the girl.