ray, merry as her lips. Outside, lying
about, half naked in the warm sunshine, are three or four boys with the
same eyes and mouth, undeniably her children.

"Wisha! 'tis meself's glad to see ye," she says, with a beaming smile.
"Good luck to yer faces. 'Tis a long time now, Miss Beresford, since ye
came, or Miss Kit there."

"I promised your mother a pudding, and I have brought it," says Kit.

"Look at that, now! 'Tis a trouble we are to ye entirely. Mother, wake
up a bit, an' thank Miss Kit for what she's brought ye."

"Ye're too kind, asthore, too kind," mumbles the old woman in the
corner, turning eyes that are still full of light upon the child, "to
think of an ould 'ooman now in the grave as it might be. Ay, faix! An'
the bells a-ringin' too. I can hear 'em sometimes, when the wind's
down----"

"Nonsense, mother! the yard (churchyard) will be lonely for ye yet
awhile," says Mrs. Daly, junior, cheerfully. "See, now! taste this:
'twill do ye good. An' you'll sit down, Miss Monica, I hope. Take care,
honey, till I dust the chair for ye." This is dexterously done with the
corner of her apron. "An' ye'll take a dhrop o' tay too, may be; oh, ye
will now, if only to plase me, afther yer long walk, an' all to honor
the ould woman."

"Ah, there is Mrs. Moloney!" says Kit, addressing the second younger
woman, who is a thin little peasant with a somewhat discontented
expression. "The sun blinded my eyes so that I could not see you at
first. Have you heard from your boy at sea?"

"Yes, miss. Praises be above! He's doin' well, he says; but it's belike
I'll never see a sight of his handsome face again."

"Oh, nonsense, now, Mrs. Moloney, me dear! What are ye talkin' like that
for?" says young Mrs. Daly, who seems to be the parish consoler. "Sure
it's back he'll be wid ye before the new year."

"Oh, yes, I _hope_ so," says Monica, softly.

"'Tis hard to hope, miss, wid the rowling wind o' nights, an' the waves
dashin' up on the beach."

"Ye're an ould croaker," says Mrs. Daly, giving her a good-humored
shake, "An' now sit down, Miss Monica an' Miss Kit, do, till I get ye
the sup o' tay. Mrs. Moloney, me dear, jist give the fire a poke, an'
make the kittle sing us a song. 'Tis the music we want most now."

It would have been considered not only a rudeness, but an act _hauteur_,
to refuse this simple hospitality: so the girls seat themselves, and,
indeed, to tell the truth, are rather glad than otherwise of this chan