"I quite agree," said Cruikshank. "I much prefer lilies myself."

"I was thinking of human beings," said I, and at that moment came Bellwattle out of the house.

"Now," I asked her, "what's the most beautiful thing in the world?"

She heard not a single word of my question, but she answered it nevertheless.

"Where's Dandy?" said she.

Upon my soul, I don't know which of us is right.

CHAPTER VII

Ballysheen is one of those little villages, tucked in between high headlands, that lie along the south coast of Ireland. A Protestant rector, a parish priest and his curate shepherd the two or three hundred souls of which it is composed.

Ballysheen

There is one street—so called—lined with those white or pink-washed cottages, all one story in height, which are peculiar to that corner of the world. For the most part they are occupied by fishermen; though here, there is Quin the baker, there, Foley the provision merchant and, distributed in other cottages down the street, you will find Linehan the cobbler, Tierney the town councillor and plumber, O'Shaughnessey the butcher, and last of all, achieving distinction by its proportions, the two-storied edifice belonging to the Royal Irish Constabulary.

Besides and beyond the centre of this hive of activity, there are three lanes, all combining to meet towards that road which has been built up the side of the cliff and which, when at length necessity ceases for it to continue, dwindles into a winding cliff path that leads on and away to the wild headlands.

The few better-class houses, occupied by summer residents, or those who of necessity are compelled to live there the whole year round, are to be found variously situated. There is no fashionable quarter in Ballysheen. If you were to divide it up into quarters you might lose sight of it altogether. My friend Cruikshank lives in a house hidden away in a nest of trees that cluster round the Protestant church. Janemount, on the other hand, belonging to the Miss Fennells, is away on the very brow of the cliff road, just at that point where it tires of magnificence and becomes a little rambling path.

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