of her hat.

"Wait until you have children, my dear," said Mrs. Cafferty, "you
won't be so pernickety then." She further told Mary that when she was
herself younger she had often spent an hour and a half doing up her
hair, and she had been so particular that the putting on of a blouse
or the pinning of a skirt to a belt had tormented her happily for two
hours. "But, bless you," she roared, "you get out of all that when you
get children. Wait till you have six of them to be dressed every
morning, and they with some of their boots lost and the rest of them
mixed up, and each of them wriggling like an eel on a pan until you
have to slap the devil out of them before their stocking can be got
on: the way they screw their toes up in the wrong places! and the way
they squeal that you're pinching them! and the way that they say
you've rubbed soap in their eyes!"--Mrs. Cafferty lifted her eyes and
her hands to the ceiling in a dumb remonstrance with Providence, and
dropped them again forlornly as one in whom Providence had never been
really interested--"You'll have all the dressing you want and a bit
over for luck," said she.

She complimented Mary on her hair, her complexion, the smallness of
her feet, the largeness of her eyes, the slenderness of her waist,
the width of her hat and of her shoe strings: so impartially and
inclusively did she compliment her that by the time they went out Mary
was rosy with appreciation and as self-confident as a young girl is
entitled to be.

It was a beautiful gray day with a massy sky which seemed as if it
never could move again or change, and, as often happens in Ireland in
cloudy weather, the air was so very clear that one could see to a
great distance. On such days everything stands out in sharp outline. A
street is no longer a congery of houses huddling shamefully together
and terrified lest any one should look at them and laugh. Each house
then recaptures its individuality. The very roadways are aware of
themselves and bear their horses, and cars, and trams in a competent
spirit, adorned with modesty as with a garland. It has a beauty beyond
sunshine, for sunshine is only youth and carelessness. The impress of
a thousand memories, the historic visage becomes apparent: the quiet
face which experience has ripened into knowledge and mellowed into the
wisdom of charity is seen then: the great social beauty shines from
the streets under this sky that broods like a thoughtful forehead.

W