anything, understated its charms. Surely never did sweeter grey
eyes shelter behind curling black lashes, and look out of a broader,
fairer brow. The waving hair was of purest flaxen, and the careless
coiffure was as becoming as if arranged by the most skilful of
hairdressers. What if the mouth were large, and the nose of no
classical outline, no one who looked into Bridget O'Shaughnessy's eyes
had either time or inclination to look further.

"I'm ashamed to think of you sitting here all by yourself!" she cried,
holding both Mademoiselle's hands in hers, and smiling into her face
with a beguiling sweetness. "We always call the breakfast-hour eight;
because, if we said nine, it would be ten, and ye must be punctual in
arranging for a family. But it's all for the best, for I've told Molly
to bring something in at once, and you and I will have a cosy meal
before the rest appear. And you are looking quite fresh and bright this
morning--that's good! My heart was broken for you last night, when you
came in all perished with cold. And it was so good of you to take the
long journey to give us this pleasure. You don't know the excitement
there was in this house when Jack's telegram arrived! If we were
pleased to think of having a child for the holidays, imagine our delight
when it was a girl like ourselves--a companion for Esmeralda and me!"

"A girl like ourselves!" Oh, Bridgie, Bridgie, you must have had a
taste of the Blarney Stone too, to have ignored so completely the ten
years which separated you from your visitor; but, needless to say,
Mademoiselle bore you no grudge for your short-sightedness, and was only
too happy to be classed as a girl once more.

They sat down to breakfast together, and presently one member after
another of the family strolled in, and took their share in entertaining
the stranger. The Major put on his most fascinating air, and revived
recollections of an old visit to "Paree," and Pat and Miles stared
unblinkingly at every morsel she put between her lips. They were both
handsome lads, but Pat in especial had such languishing eyes, such an
air of pensive melancholy, that he seemed almost too good for this
wicked world, and as far as possible removed from the ordinary
mischievous schoolboy. Mademoiselle wondered what beautiful poetic
fancies were passing through his brain as he lay back in his chair and
pushed the curls from his forehead. Then his eyes met hers, and he
smiled angelic