of a feast for the gulls.

"Oh, yes, Miss Terry, I'll find plenty for them! There's leavings enough.
It's only taking a little from the pigs, fat things that do be always
eating a lot too much!"

The end of it was that a splendid mess was made for the gulls, and spread
in little heaps under the trees, and all about the lawn, and even under the
windows, for Terry and Turly wanted to be able to watch them at their
dinner, and they could not stay out of doors, as gulls are so easily
frightened.

From behind the curtain the children watched them circling, circling
downward. Even when they smelt the hot food, the gulls did not alter their
rhythmical pace and movement, but performed their journey in regular order,
descending with each circle nearer and yet a little nearer to the ground.
At last the first gull ventured a foot upon the territory of man, and
immediately they all dropped on one another, wings falling on wings, and
cries filling the air as the beautiful hungry creatures forgot all their
poetry in their ravening and scrambling for the food.

That was a good evening also, for by the time the gulls had eaten up all
the dinner and flown away it was nearly the hour for going to Gran'ma, and
she had to be informed of the delightful experience of the morning with the
birds. And Granny told them how, when she used to be going about among the
trees and in the garden, the birds would eat out of her hand, and the
little squirrels, who always came to look after the walnuts, were never in
the least bit afraid of her. After all this the children went to bed
feeling even more gentle and harmless than the night before. And when they
awoke next morning, expecting another day of charity to the birds, they
were quite like little ministering angels, and tricks and adventures were
far from them.

But, alas! the snow was gone, the birds were regaling themselves on a
breakfast of worms, and the rain was pouring thickly and quietly, with an
easy intention of going on for ever, as only Irish rain can pour.

Now what was to be done? No good works were possible. Nurse Nancy could
think of nothing more diverting than story-books, and so Terry and Turly
sat each on a stool beside the fire with a book, while Nancy went as usual
to attend to her mistress.

Nurse had said nothing about practising, and, good as she wanted to be,
Terry had not courage to return of her own accord to the melancholy piano
in the deserted drawing-room. If Turly