ight well have
created admiration in the court of Queen Anne.

"Ah, yes! that is something like what it should be," chimes in Miss
Penelope, paying a tribute to the talent of her sister. "Priscilla has
caught the true tone. I wish, Terence, we could see you more like your
dear grandfather; _he_ was a man to bow."

Terence, calling to mind the portrait of his "dear grandfather," as
represented in the elaborate gilt frame in the dining-room, in a court
suit and a periwig, and with an abominable simper, most devoutly thanks
his gods that he is _not_ like unto him. He is, indeed (feeling goaded
to the last degree), about to break into unseemly language, when,
fortunately, the arrival of the ancient equipage that has done duty at
Moyne as state carriage for generations is announced.

The coachman, who is considerably older than Timothy, draws up the old
horses before the door with a careful manner that impresses the beholder
with the belief that he thinks they would run away in a minute if he
relaxed a muscle on the reins; and a small boy who acts as footman and
looks decidedly depressed, lets down the rickety steps.

Miss Priscilla Blake then enters the carriage. She is followed with much
ceremony by Miss Penelope. After which Monica, who is impressed by the
proceedings, and Terence, who is consumed with secret mirth, step in and
seat themselves. Then the coachman says, "Gee up!" in exactly the tone
he has employed for forty years; and the gloomy boy settling down beside
him, they are all presently on the fair road to Aghyohillbeg.

The drive is a very pleasant one, though filled with injunctions of the
most obsolete from the Misses Blake as to their behavior, etc. The fact
is, that the two old maids are so puffed out with pride at the thought
that they will presently introduce to the county the handsome lad and
beautiful girl opposite them that they have grown fidgety and
over-anxious about the niceties of their presentation.

"Surely," say the Misses Blake to themselves and to each other, "not
half so pretty a pair could be produced by any family in the south!"

Which is saying a great deal, as in the south of Ireland a pretty face
is more the rule than the exception.

Over the dusty road they go, calmly, carefully, the old horses being
unaccustomed to fast ways of any sort; slowly, with much care they pick
their aged steps, never stumbling, never swerving, but as certainly
never giving way to frivolous haste.