test
part of it was that she did not know what we were laughing at.

Then I opened the gate and stepped up and held out my hand, and
involuntarily she wiped her own hand (which was covered with meal from
the porridge she was making) before taking mine.

"Goodness me, it's Mary O'Neill."

"Yes, it's I."

"But let me have a right look at you," she said, taking me now by both
hands. "They were saying such wonderful things about the young misthress
that I wasn't willing to believe them. But, no, no," she said, after a
moment, "they didn't tell me the half."

I was still laughing, but it was as much as I could do not to cry, so I
said:

"May I come in?"

"My goodness yes, and welcome," she said, and calling to the doctor to
wash his hands and follow us, she led the way into the kitchen-parlour,
where the kettle was singing from the "slowery" and a porridge-pot was
bubbling over the fire.

"Sit down. Take the elbow-chair in the chiollagh [the hearth place].
There! That's nice. Aw, yes, you know the house."

Being by this time unable to speak for a lump in my throat that was
hurting me, I looked round the room, so sweet, so homely, so closely
linked with tender memories of my childhood, while Martin's mother
(herself a little nervous and with a touching softness in her face) went
on talking while she stirred the porridge with a porridge-stick.

"Well, well! To think of all the years since you came singing carols to
my door! You remember it, don't you? . . . Of course you do. 'Doctor,' I
said, 'don't talk foolish. _She'll_ not forget. _I_ know Mary O'Neill.
She may be going to be a great lady, but haven't I nursed her on my
knee?'"

"Then you've heard what's to happen?" I asked.

"Aw yes, woman, yes," she answered in a sadder tone, I thought.
"Everybody's bound to hear it--what with the bands practising for the
procession, and the bullocks roasting for the poor, and the fireworks
and the illuminations, and I don't know what."

She was silent for a moment after that, and then in her simple way she
said:

"But it's all as one if you love the man, even if he _is_ a lord."

"You think that's necessary, don't you?"

"What, _millish?_"

"Love. You think it's necessary to love one's husband?"

"Goodness sakes, girl, yes. If you don't have love, what have you?
What's to keep the pot boiling when the fire's getting low and the
winter's coming on, maybe? The doctor's telling me some of the fine
ladies in London a