that
part of the late Mrs. Beresford.

"It seems they have landed and will be with us to-day."

"The day, miss?" growing brisk at this unexpected announcement.

"Yes, they have reached England in safety, and are now in Dublin. What a
long, long journey it has been for them," with another dreamy glance at
the letter, "all the way from Palestine!"

"An' so it has, miss, poor little crathurs!" says Timothy, who knows as
much about the whereabouts of Palestine as he does about the man in the
moon.

"You mustn't think they are very young, Timothy," says Miss Penelope,
hastily. "Miss Priscilla and I have been talking it over, and we believe
Miss Beresford must be now seventeen, Master Terence sixteen, and Miss
Kate fourteen."

"And so of course they must be, miss. Thrue for ye, ma'am. Dear, dear,
though only to think now; it seems only the other day the dear young
lady was married to Mister Beresford. But you aren't eating a bit,
miss," anxiously; "you haven't tasted a morsel, ma'am. What can I get ye
now?"

"Nothing, Timothy. The fact is----"

"There's an iligant ham downstairs, ma'am," says the old man, now really
concerned for the mistresses, who still always appear to him as "the
young ladies:" "let me bring it up to you."

"No, thank you, Timothy: we are just a little upset by this sudden news.
We cannot help wondering how the old house will be with children in it,
after all these years of calm and quiet."

"Sure an' a grand change it will be for us all, miss; 'twill indeed,
ma'am," says Timothy, cheerfully, though his mind misgives him. "There's
nothing like children, when all's told: sure's there's music in every
sound of their footsteps."

"I hope they will be good," says Miss Penelope, with a doubtful sigh.

"Faix, what else would they be, miss?" says the old man, with assumed
reproach. "'Tis well I mind of poor Miss Katherine herself,--the soft
tongue she had in her head, an' never a cross word out of her, save to
Nelly Doolin--an' she was the divil herself, savin' your presence, miss,
and enough to provoke all the saints--glory be----"

"I trust they will be happy here," goes on Miss Penelope, still wistful.

"An' why not, miss? Sure the counthry is the finest place at all for the
young; and where's a finer counthry than ould Ireland?"

"Much can't be said for it of late, Timothy," says Miss Priscilla,
sadly: "all it can boast of now is rebellion, sedition, and bloodshed."

"Sure every one must