n the room. Was this real passion, or was it the mere
exhibition of an accomplished artist, who could call up expression at
will, as easily as a painter could heighten colour? Kate Kearney evidently
believed the former, as her heaving chest and her tremulous lip betrayed,
while the cold, simpering smile on Walpole's face, and the 'brava,
bravissima' in which he broke the silence, vouched how he had interpreted
that show of emotion.

'If that is singing, I wonder what is crying,' cried old Kearney, while he
wiped his eyes, very angry at his own weakness.' And now will any one tell
me what it was all about?'

'A young girl, sir,' replied Gorman, 'who, by a great effort, has rallied
herself to dispel her sorrow and be merry, suddenly remembers that her
sweetheart may not love her, and the more she dwells on the thought, the
more firmly she believes it. That was the cry, "He never loved me," that
went to all our hearts.'

'Faith, then, if Nina has to say that,' said the old man, 'Heaven help the
others.'

'Indeed, uncle, you are more gallant than all these young gentlemen,' said
Nina, rising and approaching him.

'Why they are not all at your feet this moment is more than I can tell.
They're always telling me the world is changed, and I begin to see it now.'

'I suspect, sir, it's pretty much what it used to be,' lisped out Walpole.
'We are only less demonstrative than our fathers.'

'Just as I am less extravagant than mine,' cried Kilgobbin, 'because I have
not got it to spend.'

'I hope Mademoiselle Nina judges us more mercifully,' said Walpole.

'Is that song a favourite of yours?' asked she of Gorman, without noticing
Walpole's remark in any way.

'No,' said he bluntly; 'it makes me feel like a fool, and, I am afraid,
look like one too, when I hear it.'

'I'm glad there's even that much blood in you,' cried old Kearney, who had
caught the words. 'Oh dear! oh dear! England need never be afraid of the
young generation.'

'That seems to be a very painful thought to you, sir,' said Walpole.

'And so it is,' replied he. 'The lower we bend, the more you'll lay on us.
It was your language, and what you call your civilisation, broke us down
first, and the little spirit that fought against either is fast dying out
of us.'

'Do you want Mr. Walpole to become a Fenian, papa?' asked Kate.

'You see, they took him for one to-day,' broke in Dick, 'when they came and
carried off all his luggage.'

'By the way,' int