d towers, duns, raths, or other antiquities, and bade
us adieu, saying that he should have the honour of waiting upon us that
evening with our permission.

A person in a neat black dress and little black bonnet with white lawn
strings now brought up the two children to say good-bye to Salemina.
It was the Derelict, Benella Dusenberry, clothed in maid's apparel, and
looking, notwithstanding that disguise, like a New England schoolma'am.
She was delighted to see us, scanned every detail of Francesca's
travelling costume with the frankest admiration, and would have allowed
us to carry our wraps and umbrellas upstairs if she had not been
reminded by Salemina. We had a cosy cup of tea together, and told our
various adventures, but Salemina was not especially communicative about
hers. Oddly enough, she had met the La Touche children at the hotel in
Mallow. They were travelling with a very raw Irish nurse, who had no
control of them whatever. They shrieked and kicked when taken to their
rooms at night, until Salemina was obliged to speak to them, in order
that Benella's rest should not be disturbed.

"I felt so sorry for them," she said--"the dear little girl put to
bed with tangled hair and unwashed face, the boy in a rumpled, untidy
nightgown, the bedclothes in confusion. I didn't know who they were nor
where they came from, but while the nurse was getting her supper I made
them comfortable, and Broona went to sleep with my strange hand in hers.
Perhaps it was only the warm Irish heart, the easy friendliness of
the Irish temperament, but I felt as if the poor little things must be
neglected indeed, or they would not have clung to a woman whom they had
never seen before." (This is a mistake; anybody who has the opportunity
always clings to Salemina.) "The next morning they were up at daylight,
romping in the hall, stamping, thumping, clattering, with a tin cart
on wheels rattling behind them. I know it was not my affair, and I was
guilty of unpardonable rudeness, but I called the nurse into my room and
spoke to her severely. No, you needn't smile; I was severe. 'Will you
kindly do your duty, and keep the children quiet as they pass through
the halls?' I said. 'It is never too soon to teach them to obey the
rules of a public place, and to be considerate of older people.' She
seemed awestruck. But when she found her tongue she stammered, 'Sure,
ma'am, I've tould thim three times this day already that when their
father comes he