der big tower in the trees? That's
Folksdale, where the Farragans live. The daughters have been walking
over the world like peacocks, but they'll crawl on it like cockroaches
. . . Hulloh, here's ould Balgean of Eagle Hill, in his grand carriage
with his English coachman. . . . See that, though? See him doff his hat
to you, the ould hypocrite? He knows something. He's got an inkling.
Things travel. We'll beat 'em, gel, we'll beat 'em! They'll be round us
like bees about a honeypot."

It was impossible not to catch the contagion of my father's triumphant
spirits, and in my different way I found myself tingling with delight as
I recognised the scenes associated with my childhood--the village, the
bridge, the lane to Sunny Lodge and Murphy's Mouth, and the trees that
bordered our drive.

Nearly everything looked smaller or narrower or lower than I had
thought, but I had forgotten how lovely they all were, lying so snugly
under the hill and with the sea in front of them.

Our house alone when we drove up to it seemed larger than I had
expected, but my father explained this by saying:

"Improvements, gel! I'll show you over them to-morrow morning."

Aunt Bridget (white-headed now and wearing spectacles and a white cap),
Betsy Beauty (grown tall and round, with a kind of country comeliness)
and Nessy MacLeod (looking like a premature old maid who was doing her
best to be a girl) were waiting at the open porch when our car drew up,
and they received me with surprising cordiality.

"Here she is at last!" said Aunt Bridget.

"And such luck as she has come home to!" said Betsy Beauty.

There were compliments on the improvement in my appearance (Aunt Bridget
declaring she could not have believed it, she really could not), and
then Nessy undertook to take me to my room.

"It's the same room still, Mary," said my Aunt, calling to me as I went
upstairs. "When they were changing everything else I remembered your
poor dear mother and wouldn't hear of their changing that. It isn't a
bit altered."

It was not. Everything was exactly as I remembered it. But just as I was
beginning for the first time in my life to feel grateful to Aunt
Bridget, Nessy said:

"No thanks to her, though. If she'd had her way, she would have wiped
out every trace of your mother, and arranged this marriage for her own
daughter instead."

More of the same kind she said which left me with the impression that my
father was now the god of her idolatry