ve been able to find
fault with the irregular attendance of the children, to express her
opinion that the school was not what it might be, and to throw out hints
that she must set about reforming it unless it soon reformed itself.

Bessie Fairfax was on speaking terms with nearly everybody, and Miss
Mitten called her the moment she appeared to help in setting a ring for
"drop hankercher." Two of the little Carnegies merrily joined hands with
the rest, and they were just about to begin, Jack being unanimously
nominated as first chase for his dexterous running, when a shrill voice
called to them peremptorily to desist.

"Why have you fallen out of rank? You ought to have kept your ranks
until you had sung grace before tea. Get into line again quickly, for
here come the buns;" and there was Miss Thusy O'Flynn, perched on a
mole-hill, in an attitude of command, waving her parasol and
demonstrating how they were to stand.

"The buns, indeed! It is time, I'm sure," muttered Miss Buff,
substantial in purple silk and a black lace bonnet. Her rival was a
pretty, red-haired, resolute little girl, very prettily dressed, who
showed to no disadvantage on the mole-hill. But Miss Buff could see no
charm she had; she it was who had given leave for a game, to pass the
time before tea. The children had been an hour in the orchard, and the
feast was still delayed.

"Perhaps the kettle does not boil," suggested Miss Wort, indulgently.

"We are kept waiting for Miss O'Flynn's aunt," rejoined Miss Buff. "Here
she comes, with our angelical parson, and Lady Latimer, out in the cold,
walking behind them."

Bessie Fairfax looked up. Lady Latimer was her supreme admiration. She
did not think that another lady so good, so gracious, so beautiful,
enriched the world. If there did, that lady was not the Viscountess
Poldoody. Bessie had a lively sense of fun, and the Irish dame was a
figure to call a smile to a more guarded face than hers--a short squab
figure that waddled, and was surmounted by a negative visage composed of
pulpy, formless features, and a brown wig of false curls--glaringly
false, for they were the first thing about her that fixed the eye,
though there were many matters besides to fascinate an observer with
leisure to look again. She seemed, however, a most free and cheerful old
lady, and talked in a loud, mellow voice, with a pleasant touch of the
brogue. She had been a popular Dublin singer and actress in her day--a
day some