ter,
Miss O'Hara, an elderly maiden lady, with a light brown wig; and a
raw-boned, much-freckled young man, Peter O'Gorman, her nephew.

Nothing could be more cordial than the reception of the Kennyfecks; they
affected not to think that it was so late, vowed that the clock was
too fast, were certain that Mr. Cashel's watch was right; in fact, his
presence was a receipt in full for all the anxieties of delay, and so
they made him feel it.

There was a little quizzing of Roland, as they seated themselves at
table, over his forgetfulness of the day before, but so good-humoredly
as not to occasion, even to himself, the slightest embarrassment.

"At breakfast at the barrack!" repeated Miss Kennyfeck after him. "What
a formidable affair, if it always lasts twenty-four hours."

"What do you mean? How do you know that?" asked Roland, half in shame,
half in surprise, at this knowledge of his movements.

"Not to speak of the brilliant conversation, heightened by all the
excitement of wit, champagne, and hazard,--dreadful competitors with
such tiresome society as ours," said Olivia.

"Never mind them, Mr. Cashel," broke in Miss O'Hara, in a mellifluous
Doric; "'tis jealous they are, because you like the officers better than
themselves."

A most energetic dissent was entered by Cashel to this supposition, who
nevertheless felt grateful for the advocacy of the old lady.

"When I was in the Cape Coast Fencibles," broke in Peter, with an accent
that would have induced one to believe Africa was on the Shannon, "we
used to sit up all night,--it was so hot in the day; but we always
called it breakfast, for you see--"

"And when are we to visit your pictures, Mr. Cashel?" said Mrs.
Kennyfeck, whose efforts to suppress Peter were not merely vocal, as
that injured individual's shins might attest.

"That depends entirely on you, madam," said Roland, bowing. "I have only
to say, the earlier the more agreeable to me."

"He has such a beautiful collection," said Mrs. Kennyfeck, turning to
her sister.

"Indeed, then, I delight in pictures," said "Aunt Fanny," as her nieces
called her. "I went the other day to Mount Bennett, to see a portrait
painted by Rousseau."

"By Rubens, I suppose you mean, aunt," interposed Miss Kennyfeck,
tartly.

"So it may be, my dear, I never know the names right; but it was a dark
old man, with a hairy cap and a long gray beard, as like Father Morris
Heffernan as ever it could stare."

"Is your new