less simple motive, he saw no necessity for informing his docile
housewife on the matter.

As Sophia was accustomed to no such condescension on his part even in
circumstances more extraordinary, she merely bundled out of bed
unquestioningly in the darkness and cold of the morning to see his
orders executed in the proper manner; which, indeed, to her credit was
so successfully accomplished that Tanty and her charges, when they
made their entry upon the scene, could not fail to be impressed with
the comfortable aspect of the majestic old room.

Mr. Landale examined his two young uninvited guests with new keenness
in the morning light. Molly was demure enough, though there was a
lurking gleam in her dark eye which suggested rather armed truce than
accepted peace. As for Madeleine, though to be serene was an actual
necessity of her delicate nature, there was more than resignation in
the blushing radiance of her look and smile.

"Portraits of their mother," said Rupert, bringing his critical survey
to a close, and stepping forward with a nice action of the legs to
present his arm to his aunt. "Portraits of their mother both of
them--I trust to that miniature which used to grace our collection in
the drawing-room rather than to the treacherous memory of a school-boy
for the impression--but portraits by different masters and in
different moods."

There was something patronising in the tone from so young a man, which
Molly resented on the spot.

"Oh, we should be as like as two peas, only that we are as different
as day and night, as Tanty says," she retorted, tossing her white chin
at her host, while Miss O'Donoghue laughed aloud at her favourite's
sauciness.

"And after all," said Rupert, as he bestowed his venerable relative on
her chair, with an ineffable air of politeness, contradicted, though
only for an instant, by the look which he shot at Molly from the light
hazel eyes, "Tanty is not so far wrong--the only difference between
night and day is the difference between the _brunette_ and the
_blonde_," with a little bow to each of the sisters, "an Irish bull,
if one comes to analyse it, is but the expression of the too rapid
working of quick wits."

"Faith, nephew," said Tanty, sitting down in high good humour to the
innumerable good things in which her Epicurean old soul delighted,
"that is about as true a thing as ever you said. Our Irish tongues are
apt to get behind a thing before it is there, and they call t