have a kick up sometimes, miss," says Timothy, with
youthful lightness; "an', afther all, isn't the ould place only doin'
what she can for herself, more power to her?"

"Ryan," says Miss Priscilla, sternly, addressing her butler by his
surname,--a thing that is never done except in dire cases,--and fixing
upon him an icy glance beneath which he quails, "I regret you should so
far forget yourself as to utter such treasonable sentiments in our
presence. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"So I am miss. I humbly ask yer pardon, ma'am," says Mr. Ryan, promptly.
"But all the different opinions one hears addles the brain. 'Twas only
last night the Murphys had a meeting, and they do say, miss," lowering
his voice confidentially, "that the Squire down there," pointing
apparently through the breakfast-room wall, "is in a bad way with the
League boys."

"The Desmond?"

"Yes, miss. He's been evictin' again, ma'am, an' there's queer talk
about him. But," with a relapse into former thought, "if he's a bad
landlord, what can he expect?"

"No, no, Timothy. He is not a bad landlord," says Miss Priscilla,
hastily, though this allowance of grace to her enemy causes her a bitter
pang. "He has been most patient for years. That I _know_."

"Well, maybe so, miss," says Ryan, deferentially, but with a reservation
in his manner that speaks volumes. "It isn't for the likes of me ma'am,
to contradict the likes of you. But did ye hear, miss, that Misther
Desmond's nephew has come to stay with him?"

"At Coole?"

"At the Castle. Yes, miss. Faix 'twas meself was surprised to hear it.
But there he is, safe enough, an' another gentleman with him; an' they
do say that the old masther is as proud as Punch of him. But his blood's
bad, I'll no doubt."

"No doubt," says Priscilla, severely.

Miss Penelope sighs.

CHAPTER II.

How two Old Maids are made acquainted with a very Young One.

Already we have reached the afternoon. In these warm June days, when all
the earth is languorous and glad with its own beauty, time slips from us
unannounced, and the minutes from morn to eventide, and from the
gloaming till nightfall, melt into one another, until all seem one
sweet, lengthened hour.

Just now the hot sun is pouring down upon garden and gravelled walks at
Moyne; except the hum of the industrious bees, not a sound can be heard;
even the streamlet at the end of the long lawn is running sleepily,
making sweet music as it goes,