"How good! Why, I'm Baby Blake."

"Baby Blake?" said I, thinking that a rather strange appellation for one
whose well-developed proportions betokened nothing of infancy,--"Baby
Blake?"

"To be sure; your cousin Baby."

"Indeed!" said I, springing forward. "Let me embrace my relative."
Accepting my proffered salutation with the most exemplary coolness, she
said:--

"Get a chair, now, and let's have a talk together."

"Why the devil do they call you Baby?" said I, still puzzled by this
palpable misnomer.

"Because I am the youngest, and I was always the baby," replied she,
adjusting her ringlets with a most rural coquetry. "Now tell me something.
Why do you live shut up here like a madman, and not come near us at
Gurt-na-Morra?"

"Oh, that's a long story, Baby. But, since we are asking questions, how did
you get in here?"

"Just through the window, my dear; and I've torn my habit, as you see."

So saying, she exhibited a rent of about two feet long, thrusting through
it a very pretty foot and ankle at the same time.

"As my inhospitable customs have cost you a habit, you must let me make you
a present of one."

"No, will you though? That's a good fellow. Lord! I told them I knew you
weren't a miser; that you were only odd, that's all."

"And how did you come over, Baby?"

"Just cantered over with little Paddy Byrne. I made him take all the walls
and ditches we met, and they're scraping the mud off him ever since. I'm
glad I made you laugh, Charley; they say you are so sad. Dear me, how
thirsty I am! Have you any beer?"

"To be sure, Baby. But wouldn't you like some luncheon?"

"Of all things. Well, this is fun!" said she, as taking my arm, I led her
from the drawing-room. "They don't know where I'm gone,--not one of them;
and I've a great mind not to tell them, if you wouldn't blab."

"Would it be quite proper?"

"Proper!" cried she, imitating my voice. "I like that! as if I was going to
run away with you! Dear me, what a pretty house, and what nice pictures!
Who is the old fellow up there in the armor?"

"That's Sir Hildebrand O'Malley," said I, with some pride in recognizing an
ancestor of the thirteenth century.

"And the other old fright with the wig, and his hands stuck in his
pockets?"

"My grandfather, Baby."

"Lord, how ugly he is! Why, Charley, he hasn't the look of you. One would
think, too, he was angry at us. Ay, old gentleman, you don't like to see me
leaning on Cousin Charley's a