iterated all notion that life had anything before him except
what was agreeable and pleasant.

'We want to know if you play croquet, Mr. O'Shea?' said Nina as he entered.
'And we want also to know, are you a captain, or a Rittmeister, or a major?
You can scarcely be a colonel.'

'Your last guess I answer first. I am only a lieutenant, and even that
very lately. As to croquet, if it be not your foreign mode of pronouncing
cricket, I never even saw it.'

'It is not my foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, Herr Lieutenant,' said
she pertly, 'but I guessed already you had never heard of it.'

'It is an out-of-door affair,' said Dick indolently, 'made for the
diffusion of worked petticoats and Balmoral boots.'

'I should say it is the game of billiards brought down to universal
suffrage and the million,' lisped out Walpole.

'Faith,' cried old Kearney, 'I'd say it was just football with a stick.'

'At all events,' said Kate, 'we purpose to have a grand match to-morrow.
Mr. Walpole and I are against Nina and Dick, and we are to draw lots for
you, Mr. O'Shea.'

'My position, if I understand it aright, is not a flattering one,' said he,
laughing.

'We'll take him,' cried Nina at once. 'I'll give him a private lesson in
the morning, and I'll answer for his performance. These creatures,'
added she, in a whisper, 'are so drilled in Austria, you can teach them
anything.'

Now, as the words were spoken O'Shea caught them, and drawing close to
her, said, 'I do hope I'll justify that flattering opinion.' But her only
recognition was a look of half-defiant astonishment at his boldness.

A very noisy discussion now ensued as to whether croquet was worthy to be
called a game or not, and what were its laws and rules--points which Gorman
followed with due attention, but very little profit; all Kate's good sense
and clearness being cruelly dashed by Nina's ingenious interruptions and
Walpole's attempts to be smart and witty, even where opportunity scarcely
offered the chance.

'Next to looking on at the game,' cried old Kearney at last, 'the most
tiresome thing I know of is to hear it talked over. Come, Nina, and give me
a song.'

'What shall it be, uncle?' said she, as she opened the piano.

'Something Irish, I'd say, if I were to choose for myself. We've plenty of
old tunes, Mr. Walpole,' said Kearney, turning to that gentleman, 'that
rebellion, as you call it, has never got hold of. There's _"Cushla Macree"_
and the _"Cai