d they get me a veal cutlet, or a bit
of cold chicken?"

A waiter was summoned.

"And you must give me a little bit of ham with the cold chicken. No,
father; I won't have any wine because it would get into my head, and
then I should kill Mr. Mahomet M. Moss."

"My dear," said her father when the man had left the room, "do you
wish to declare all your animosities before the waiter?"

"Well, yes, I think I do. If we are to remain here it will be better
that they should all know that I regard this man as my schoolmaster.
I know what I'm about; I don't let a word go without thinking of it."

Then again they remained silent, and Mr. O'Mahony pretended to go to
sleep--and eventually did do so. He devoted himself for the time to
Home Rule, and got himself into a frame of mind in which he really
thought of Ireland.

"The first flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea."

Why should she not be so? She had all the sentiment necessary,
all the poetry, all the eloquence, all the wit. And then when he
was beginning to think whether something more than sentiment and
eloquence were not necessary, he went to sleep.

But Rachel was not sleeping. Her thoughts were less stationary than
her father's, and her ideas more realistic. She had been told that
she could sing, and she had sung at New York with great applause. And
she had gone on studying, or rather practising, the art with great
diligence. She had already become aware that practice was more needed
than study. All, nearly all, this man could teach her was to open
her mouth. Nature had given her an ear, and a voice, if she would
work hard so as to use it. It was there before her. But it had seemed
to her that her career was clogged with the necessary burden of Mr.
Moss. Mr. Moss had got hold of her, and how should she get rid of
him? He was the Old Man of the Sea, and how should she shake him off?
And then there was present to her alone a vision of Frank Jones. To
live at Morony Castle and be Frank Jones's wife, would not that be
sweeter than to sing at a theatre under the care of Mr. Mahomet M.
Moss? All the sweetness of a country life in a pleasant house by the
lake side, and a husband with her who would endure all the little
petulancy, and vagaries, and excesses of her wayward but affectionate
temper, all these things were present to her mind. And to be Mistress
Jones, who could look all the world in the face, this--as compared
with the gaslight of a theatre, which m