headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with a
grimy forefinger, to the repast within. He accepts the invitation.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"It is the mynd that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poore."

As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire,
listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancing
up the room toward the table. Nobody but the "misthress" herself is
allowed to wait upon "the young lady."

"An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir,"
with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis only
one poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are the
divil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still,
Miss," with a loving smile at Joyce, "I do think ye'll like the ham.
'Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey;
ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye were born."

"I could hardly have had a tooth before that," says Joyce, laughing.
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly; it is a lovely tea, and it is very good
of you to take all this trouble."

"Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerself, Miss?" says Mrs.
Connolly, bowing and retreating toward the door.

A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made an
impulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stop
short, holds out to her one hand.

"But, Mrs. Connolly," says she, trying to speak naturally, and
succeeding very well, so far as careless ears are in question, but the
"misthress" marks the false note, "you will stay and pour out tea for
us; you will?"

There is an extreme treaty in her tone; the stronger in that it has to
be suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and the
door with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, not
only into her eyes, but her mind.

"Why, if you wish it, Miss," says she directly. She lays down the tray,
standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts the
teapot and begins to fill the cups.

"Ye take sugar, sir?" asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled,
but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all,
as he has told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She is
determined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyond
question she is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve him
of many s