lf-mast.

THE ANCESTRY OF IRENE

In her heart Irene was confident that, though among the Madigans, she
was not of them. The color of her hair, the shape of her nose, the
tempestuousness of her disposition, the difficulty she experienced in
fitting her restless and encroaching nature into what was merely one of
a number of jealously frontiered interstices in a large family--all this
forbade tame acceptance on her part of so ordinary and humble an origin
as Francis Madigan's fatherhood connoted.

"No," she said firmly to herself the day she and Florence were
see-sawing in front of the woodshed after school, "he's only just my
foster-father; that's all."

How this foster-father--she loved the term, it sounded so delightfully
haughty--had obtained possession of one whose birthright would place her
in a station so far above his own, she had not decided. But she was
convinced that, although poor and peculiar and incapable of
comprehending the temperament and necessities of the nobly born, he was,
in his limited way, a worthy fellow. And she had long ago resolved that
when her real father came for her, she would bend graciously and
forgivingly down from her seat in the carriage, to say good-by to poor
old Madigan.

"Thank you very, very much, Mr. Madigan," she would sweetly say, "for
all your care. My father, the Count, will never forget what you have
done for his only child. As for myself, I promise you that I will have
an eye upon your little girls. I am sure his Grace the Duke will gladly
do anything for them that I recommend. I am very much interested in
little Florence, and shall certainly come for her some day in my golden
chariot to take her to my castle for a visit, because she is such a
well-behaved child and knew me, in her childish way, for a noble lady in
disguise. Cecilia? Which one is that? Oh, the one her sisters call
Sissy! She needs disciplining sadly, Mr. Madigan, sadly. Much as he
loves me, my father, the Prince, would not care to have me know her--as
she is now. But she will improve, if you will be very, very strict with
her. Good-by! Good-by, all! No, I shall not forget you. Be good and obey
your aunty. Good-by!"

The milk-white steeds would fly down the steep, narrow, unpaved streets.
On each side would stand the miners, bowing, hat in hand, hurrahing for
the great Emperor and his beautiful daughter--she who had so strangely
lived among them under the name of Split Madigan. They would speak