andlesticks; and
didn't the Bishop say 't was the natest vestry in the diocese? And this
new cojutor with his gran' accent, which no one can understand, and his
gran' furniture, and his whipster of a servant, begor, no one can stand
him. We must all clear out. And, after me eighteen years, scrubbing, and
washing, and ironing, wid me two little orphans, which that blackguard,
Jem Darcy (the Lord have mercy on his sowl!) left me, must go to
foreign countries to airn me bread, because I'm not good enough for his
reverence. Well, 't is you'll be sorry. But, if you wint down on your
two binded knees and said: 'Mrs. Darcy, I deplore you to take up them
kays and go back to your juties,' I wouldn't! No! Get some whipster
that will suit his reverence. Mary Darcy isn't good enough."

[Illustration: "My door was suddenly flung open, and a bunch of keys was
thrown angrily on the table."]

She left the room, only to return. She spoke with forced calmness.

"De thrifle of money you owe me, yer reverence, ye can sind it down to
the house before I start for America. And dere's two glasses of althar
wine in the bottle, and half a pound of candles."

She went out again, but returned immediately.

"The surplus is over at Nell O'Brien's washing, and the black vestment
is over at Tom Carmody's since the last station. The kay of the safe is
under the door of the linny[1] to de left, and the chalice is in the
basket, wrapped in the handkercher. And, if you don't mind giving me a
charackter, perhaps, Hannah will take it down in the evening."

She went out again; but kept her hand on the door.

"Good by, your reverence, and God bless you! Sure, thin, you never said
a hard word to a poor woman." Then there was the sound of falling
tears.

To all this tremendous philippic I never replied. I never do reply to a
woman until I have my hand on the door handle and my finger on the key.
I looked steadily at the column of stocks and shares on the paper,
though I never read a word.

"This is rather a bad mess," said I. "He is coming out too strong."

The minute particulars I had from Hannah soon after. Hannah and Mrs.
Darcy are not friends. Two such village potentates could not be friends
any more than two poets, or two critics, or two philosophers. As a rule,
Hannah rather looked down on the chapel woman, and generally addressed
her with studied politeness. "How are you _to-day_, Mrs. Darcy?" or more
frequently, "Good _morning_, Mrs. Darcy."