a little babe.

"It was a bitter fate," he said to himself, "and I called her 'Bittra'
in my rage. I must change that name."

He started, for the door opened and Bittra came in, immediately followed
by the servant with tea.

"We've got a new neighbor, mignonne," he said, as he broke up his toast,
"and must call immediately. Can you guess?"

"No, father," she said; but it fitted in with her apprehensions and made
her shudder.

"Neither can I," he said, laughing. "But I have got mysterious hints
that indicate a neighbor."

"Judith again," said Bittra. "She can never be explicit."

Then, after a long pause, she said, as if communing with herself:--

"I don't like new acquaintances. They are pretty certain to be
troublesome. Can't we live for one another, father?"

"Gladly, my child," he said, darkly, "but what can you do? Life is warp
and woof. It must be held together somehow. And the woof is what we call
society."

"Father," she said timidly, "there will be a station at the glen in the
morning. Might I ask the priests to breakfast here?"

"By all means," he replied, "it will be better than a dejeuner in a room
with two beds, and a squalling baby, with the bread taken from the
blankets, and the butter from the top of the dresser."

"Ah, no, pap, 't is never so bad as that. They do their best, poor
things--"

"All right," he cried. "Bring up their reverences. There are two or
three sole brought up from the yacht."

It was rather a remarkable station, that at Glencarn, although we did
not accept Miss Campion's invitation. I was rather apprehensive of the
effect these country stations would have on my fastidious curate; and I
narrowly watched him, as we left our car on the hills, and strode
through soft yellow mud and dripping heather to some mountain cabin. And
I think there was a little kindly malice in my thoughts when I allowed
him enter first, and plunge into the night of smoke that generally
filled these huts. Then the saying of Mass on a deal table, with a horse
collar overhead, and a huge collie dog beneath, and hens making frantic
attempts to get on the altar-cloth,--I smiled to myself, and was quite
impatient to know what effect all these primitive surroundings would
have on such refinement and daintiness. "He'll never stand it," I
thought, "he'll pitch up the whole thing, and go back to England." As
usual, I was quite wrong. Where I anticipated disgust, there were almost
tears of delight and sym