narrative was interspersed with very loud sobs, and fierce
catches of her breath, and her small eyes were almost sunken out of
sight.

"Oh, I know you're mad with me," she said, in conclusion. "But what's
dinner compared with mother's feelings. Oh, Miss Polly, don't look at me
like that!"

"Get up," said Polly, severely. "You are just like the people before the
Flood; I understand about them at last. I cannot speak to you now, for
we have not a moment to lose. Can you make the oven hot? There are only
potatoes for dinner, unless the apple tart can be got ready in time."

"Oh, lor'! Miss Polly, I'll soon set that going--why, you has the wrong
flue out, Miss. See now, the heat's going round it lovely. Oh, what an
elegant pie you has turned out, Miss Polly! Why, it's quite wonderful!
You has a gift in the cookery line, Miss. Oh, darling Miss Polly, don't
you be a-naming of me after them Flooders; it's awful to think I'm like
one of they. It's all on account of mother, Miss Polly. It would have
gone to your heart, Miss Polly, if you seen mother a-looking at the
eight-day clock and thinking of parting from it. Her tears made channels
on her cheeks, Miss Polly, and it was 'eart-piercing to view her. Oh, do
take back them words, Miss Polly. Don't say as I'm a Flooder."

Polly certainly had a soft heart, and although nothing could have
mortified her more than the present state of affairs, she made up her
mind to screen Maggie, and to be as little severe to her as she could.

CHAPTER XII.

POTATOES--MINUS POINT.

Dr. Maybright had reason again to congratulate himself when he sat down
to a humble dinner of boiled potatoes.

"If this regimen continues for a week," he said, under his breath, "we
must really resort to tonics. I perceive I did Polly a gross injustice.
She does not mean to make us ill with rich living."

The doctor ate his potatoes with extreme cheerfulness, remarking as he
did so on their nutritive qualities, and explaining to his discontented
family how many people lived on these excellent roots. "The only thing
we want," he said, "is a red herring; we might then have that most
celebrated of all Irish dishes--'potatoes and point.'"

"Do tell us what that is, father," said Helen, who was anxious to draw
the direful glances of the rest of the family from poor Polly.

"'Potatoes and point,'" said Dr. Maybright, raising his head for a
moment, while a droll glance filled his eye, "is a simple but econ