"Faix, I'd be sorprised if he _was_," returned the woman; "for I left him in owld Ireland, in the only landed property he iver held in this world--six futt by two, an' five deep.  He's been in possession six years now, an' it wouldn't be aisy to drive him out o' that, anyhow. No, it's my son Terence I've come to look afther.  Och! there he is! Look, look, that's him close by the funnel!  Don't ye see 'im?  Blissins on his good-lookin' face!  Hooroo!  Terence--Terence Flynn, don't ye recognise yer owld mother?  Sure an' he does, though we haven't met for tin year.  My! hasn't he got the hair on his lips too--an' his cheeks are like shoe-leather--my darlint!"