he
blood of the Montgomerys and the Haskells in your veins? Are you to
make strange with all this magnificence, as if you were Indians seeing
it for the first time?"

"That's what I've been sayin' to meself since it began," she replied.

"Since what began?"

"Why, the changin' from Mulberry Sthreet Irish to Washington Square
Yankees," Judy said with a shade of asperity. "It began wid the dog-show
an' the opera. Oh, but I thought I'd die wid laughin', whin I had to
shtan' at the doors o' wan place or the other, waitin' on Micksheen, or
listenin' to the craziest music that ever was played or sung. After that
kem politics, an' nothin' wud do her but she'd bate ould Livingstone for
Mare all by herself. Thin it was Vandervelt for imbassador to England,
an' she gev the Senator an' the Boss no pace till they tuk it up. An'
now it's the Countess o' Skibbereen mornin', noon, an' night. I'm sick
o' that ould woman. But she owns the soul of Anne Dillon."

"Well, her son can afford it," said Monsignor affably. "Why shouldn't
she enjoy herself in her own way?"

"Thrue for you, Father Phil; I ought to call you Morrisania, but the
ould names are always the shweetest. He has the money, and he knows how
to spind it, an' if he didn't she'd show him. Oh, but he's the fine b'y!
Did ye ever see annywan grow more an' more like his father, pace to his
ashes. Whin he first kem it wasn't so plain, but now it seems to me he's
the very spit o' Pat Dillon. The turn of his head is very like him."

At this point in a chat, which interested Monsignor deeply, a soft voice
floated down from the upper distance, calling, "Judy! Judy!" in a
delicate and perfect French accent.

"D'ye hear that, Father Phil?" whispered Judy with a grin. "It's nothin'
now but Frinch an' a Frinch masther. Wait till yez hear me at it."

She hastened to the hall and cried out, "Oui, oui, Madame," with a
murmured aside to the priest, "It's all I know."

"Venez en haut, Judy," said the voice.

"Oui, oui, Madame," answered Judy. "That manes come up, Father Phil,"
and Judy walked off upright, with folded arms, swinging her garments,
actions belied by the broad grin on her face, and the sarcastic motion
of her lips, which kept forming the French words with great scorn.

A few minutes afterward Anne glided into the room. The Montgomery girls
had all been famous for their beauty in the earlier history of Cherry
Hill, and Anne had been the belle of her time. He remembered h