st that for the future you will show deference to _our_
opinion, nurse; which is directly opposed to yours," says Miss
Priscilla, straightening herself.

"I suppose I can manage my own young lady, miss," says Mitchell,
undaunted, and now, indeed, thoroughly braced for conflict.

"I have grave doubts about that, Mitchell, and at least you should not
answer me in this wise."

"If I brought my young lady safely all the way from Jerusalem, miss, I
suppose I can take care of her 'ere."

"Her ear?" questions Miss Priscilla, not meaning to be rude at all.

"She means _here_," says Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper.

"Oh!" says Miss Priscilla, rather shocked at her mistake, which has been
accepted by Mitchell as a deliberate insult. "Katherine, go upstairs
with Mitchell, and change your shoes and stockings; they _must_ be
damp."

"I don't consider Mitchell at all a nice person," says Miss Priscilla,
when the door had closed upon that veteran; "but still I hope I did not
offend her with that last thoughtless slip of mine. But really, over
here in Ireland, we are not accustomed to the extraordinary language in
which Mitchell indulges at times. She seems to me to be saving up her
aspirates for a hypothetical dearth of that article in the future."

Miss Priscilla is so pleased with this long word that she quite recovers
her temper.

"Certainly, from Jerusalem _is_ a long way to bring a child," says Miss
Penelope, thoughtfully; and, indeed, this journey from Palestine has
been, and probably always will be, Mrs. Mitchell's trump card when
disputing with the mistresses of Moyne.

Miss Priscilla has walked to the window, and is now gazing in thoughtful
fashion over the fast darkening landscape. Perhaps her mind is
travelling that long journey to Palestine, perhaps it is still occupied
with the inimical Mitchell; be that as it may, she keeps her senses well
about her, and a keen eye behind her spectacles, because presently she
says aloud, in a tone calculated to attract attention,--

"_What_ is that in the meadow, creeping along beneath the ha-ha,
Katherine?"--Kit has returned with dry shoes and stockings;--"come here,
your eyes are sharper than mine!" which is a distinct libel upon her own
orbs.

"Where?" says Kit, recognizing the crouching form of Terry with a pang
of terror. Is she to be compelled to inform upon her own brother? Perish
the thought!

"Over _there_," says Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone, pointing to wh