ce
of securing their afternoon tea.

"An' how are the old ladies up above?" says Mrs. Daly, meaning the
Misses Blake.

"Quite well, thank you," says Monica. "It was only yesterday Aunt
Priscilla was saying she should come down and see old Mrs. Daly."

"She's as welcome as the flowers in May whenever she comes," says the
daughter-in-law. "D'ye hear that, mother? Miss Priscilla's comin' to see
ye, some day soon. Ay, 'tis a good friend she always was to the poor,
summer an' winter; an' isn't it wondherful now, Miss Monica, how she's
kept her figure all through? Why," raising her hands with an expressive
gesture of astonishment, "'twas Friday week I saw her, an' I said to
meself, says I, she's the figure o' a young girl, I says. Ye'll take a
taste o' this home-made cake, alanna."

She is made happy forever by Kit's unmistakable enjoyment of this
last-named luxury.

"Ay, she's an iligant figure even now," says Mrs. Moloney, in her
depressing voice. "But time an' throuble is cruel hard on some of us. I
had a figure meself when I was young," with a heartrending sigh.

"Ye were always slight, me dear, an' ye're slight now too," says Mrs.
Daly, tenderly. "I niver see the like o'ye for keepin' off the flesh.
Why, I remember ye well as a slip o' a girl, before yer blessed babby
was born, an' ye were a screed, me dear,--a screed."

"Yes, I was always ginteel," says Mrs. Moloney, openly consoled. Still
she sighs, and sips her tea with a mournful air. Mrs. Daly is drinking
hers with much appreciation out of her saucer, it being considered
discourteous to offer anything to a guest without partaking of the same
one's self.

At this moment a little cooing sound coming from the other corner of the
fireplace makes itself heard. Instantly the old woman stooping over the
turf embers rouses herself, and, turning, puts out her withered hand
lovingly towards what looks like a box covered with colored stuff of
some sort. Young Mrs. Daly rises too, precipitately and, hurrying across
the kitchen, bends over the box.

"Ay, she's awake sure enough!" says the old woman, who has quite
brightened into life. "See how she looks at ye, Molly! The colleen of
the world, she was! asthore machree-sthig."

Many another fond name is muttered, such as "pulse o' my heart," and
such like, before Mrs. Daly junior emerges from the supposed box, but
_not_ empty-handed.

"Oh! it is the baby!" cry Monica and Kit, in a breath. "Oh! what a
darling baby! a