"Why, then, they say she's an English lady, and that she's grand and young."
Mrs. Brennan was a great one for "ferreting-out" things. Once she had set her mind upon knowing a thing, there was little possibility of preventing her. And now she was most anxious to know whom Myles Shannon was about to marry. So when she saw the old bent postmistress taking the air upon the valley road later on in the day she brought her into the sewing-room and, over a cup of tea, proceeded to satisfy her curiosity.
"There must be letters?" she said after they had come round to a discussion of the rumored marriage.
"Oh, yes, indeed. There's letters coming and going, coming and going," the old lady wheezed. "A nice-looking ould codger, isn't he, to be writing letters to a young girl?"
"And how d'ye know she's young?"
"How do I know, is it, how do I know? Well, well, isn't that my business? To know and to mind."
"You're a great woman."
"I do my duty, that's all, Mrs. Brennan, as sure as you're there. And d'ye imagine for a moment I was going to let Myles Shannon pass, for all he's such a great swank of a farmer? She is a young girl."
"Well, well?"
"There's no reason to misdoubt me in the least, for I saw her photo and it coming through the post."