ther folk, without which I think
we should have all grown too strange and odd and a century at least
behind our time. Indeed, even with her, I think we were so much out of
date.

"The child grows more and more like a plant which has lived without the
light," she said one day of me to my grandmother.

"It is Bawn's nature to look pale," my grandmother said, looking at me
in an alarmed way.

"It is her nature to look pale perhaps," my godmother said, while I
fidgeted at hearing myself discussed, "but she ought to look no paler
than this apple-blossom I am wearing, which at all events dreams of
rose-colour. You keep her too much penned. I shall have to carry her
off to Dublin for some gaiety. If the season were not nearly over----"

"We couldn't do without Bawn," said my grandmother hastily. "We are too
old to live without something young beside us. Besides, she is very
happy--aren't you, Bawn?"

"Very happy." I answered the appeal in her dear voice and eyes. And to
be sure I was happy, if it were not for the loneliness and the ghosts at
night.

"She is always reading," my godmother went on. "Young girls should not
be always reading. It bends their backs and dims their eyes and makes
them forget their walks and rides. I'll tell you what, Lady St. Leger,
you had better let Bawn come and learn butter-making with me at the
Creamery. I am going to take a course of lessons and then I can make my
own butter. I think Margaret Dwyer is getting past her work. Joan says
the butter is rancid, and for once I believe Joan has cause. Every lady
ought to at least superintend her own dairy."

"I used to visit mine often," said my grandmother, "before Lord St.
Leger needed so much of my time. It was a pretty place, with white walls
and a fountain bubbling. It is a long time since I have visited it."

"Let Bawn do it. I went to visit Lady Ardaragh the other day, and she
gave me tea in her dairy. It is coming into fashion to be housekeepers
and dairymaids once more."

"Would you like to go to the Creamery, Bawn?" asked my grandmother.

"I should love to," said I. "And to have a herd of little Kerries like
Lady Ardaragh. The dairy is as pretty as ever, but it wants washing, and
the fountain is broken. I believe Michael Friely could mend it."

My grandfather made no objection when he heard of the plan, only saying
something with a laugh about fine ladies liking to play dairymaids. So
it was settled I should go to the Creamery; and