meself, me
dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could put you in their pockits. Ye poor
little crather! Oh! Murther! Who could harm the likes of ye? Faix, I
hope that ould divil of an aunt o' yours won't darken these doors, or
she'll git what she won't like from Biddy Mulcahy. There now! There now!
'Tis into yer bed I'll tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--God
help ye!"

She is gone, taking Perpetua with her. The professor rubs his eyes, and
then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Mrs. Mulcahy
takes possession of him. _What_ a woman! He had never thought so much
moral support could be got out of a landlady--but Mrs. Mulcahy has
certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his difficulties. Still, those
that remain are formidable enough to quell any foolish present attempts
at relief of mind. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"

How many to-morrows is she going to remain here? Oh! Impossible! Not an
_hour_ must be wasted. By the morning light something must be put on
foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!

Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted professor
descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him.

"Anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet.

"Yes! Mrs. Mulcahy came up." The professor's face is so gloomy, that
Hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "She has assaulted him!"

"I'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's nose,
and then at his eye. Both are the usual size.

"Eh?" says the professor. "She was visible of course. She was kinder
than I expected."

"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip--or your
nose--or----"

"_What_ is there in Everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands the
professor angrily. "For Heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't sit there
grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!"

This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it.

"I tell you she was kind--kinder than one would expect," says the
professor, rapping his knuckles on the table.

"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?"

"No--Mrs. Mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "Where's your head,
man? Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynter into her
charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried her off to bed."
The professor mops his brow.

"Oh, well, _that's_ all right," says Hardinge. "Sit down, old chap, and
let's talk it over."

"It is _not_ all right," says the profess