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is held. A priest comes to a farmer's house, says Mass, and remains on to hear confessions. In the old days, when chapels were few, the custom of holding "stations" was common. "Stations" have more to do with the hearing of confessions than with the saying of Mass. What I was going to assist at was called a station only to distinguish it from a Mass in the chapel, for 1t was not an official visitation. A young priest, a relative of the Markeys', was saying Mass for a congregation of his relatives. It was a local or rather a family festival. We encountered Farral's brother on the way. Peter was dressed for the festival, but he had taken off his black coat and was trimming the hedge with a billhook. He put the bill-hook on his shoulder and came on with us.

The two brothers had the name of being miserly—certainly they never wasted an hour of the day. But if there were grasp in the family, it must have been with the elder brother. Peter was rather like the Irish peasant of the harsh English caricature, that is to say, he was a creature apart from the people who read newspapers; he had an ungainly face, with the long upper lip and the wide mouth that has been so often caricatured, but his eyes were simple and kindly. When we entered the house, Farral Markey greeted us; to each of his visitors he said, "You are kindly welcome." Farral Markey had not the open mouth and the simple gaze of his brother; his mouth was tight, and his eyes were screwed to penetration. Men and women were in the house, but the priest had not yet come. As we waited for him we talked of the season. The