hanges
her tactics.

"Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble in
marriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes of
it," says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard for
appearances. "My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce! 'Tis improved, it is;
even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair."

"I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazing
through the small window at the threatening heavens.

"If it's my opinion y'are askin'," says Mrs. Connolly, "I'd say not till
to-morrow morning."

"Oh! Mrs. Connolly!" turning a distressed face to that good creature.

"Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her ample
arms in self-justification. "Would ye have me lie to ye? Why, a sky like
that always----"

Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to its
foundations.

"The heavens be good to us!" says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herself
devoutly. "Did ye iver hear the like o' that?"

"But--it can't last--it is impossible," says Joyce, vehemently. "Is
there no covered car in the town? Couldn't a man be persuaded to drive
me home if I promised him to----"

"If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered car
to-night," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's only one in the place, an' that
belongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen,
attindin' the funeral o' Father John Maguire. 'Twon't be home till
to-morrow any way, an'-faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then,
for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlers
to-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected."

"Are you sure there isn't another car?"

"Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear? Sure,
'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me."

"But what will they think at home and at the Court?" says Joyce,
faltering.

"Arrah! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether too
mastherful for ye? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of us)
conthrol the illimints!" This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly gives
forth with a truly noble air of resignation. "Come down now, and let me
get ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for."

She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaring
fire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smell
of stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you think
of it, we ca