ways readable.

There were also a few volumes of poetry, not very exacting,--Tennyson,
Adelaide Procter, Longfellow, and some Irish books--"The Spirit of the
Nation," "Lady Wilde's Poems," Davis, Moore: a few devotional books.

Ah well, it was very good--gentle and innocent reading. And there was
Mrs. Wade's prayer-book--The Key of Heaven,--on a small table, the
"Imitation of Christ" beside it. By these lay one or two oddly bound
books in garish colourings, Lady O'Gara opened one. She saw it was in
French--an innocuous French romance suitable for the reading of
convent-school girls.

Mechanically she looked at the flyleaf. It bore an inscription; Miss
Bride Sweeney, Enfant de Marie, had received this book for proficiency
in Italian, some twenty-two years earlier at St. Mary's Convent.

She held the book in her hand when Mrs. Wade appeared, carrying a
little tray of unpainted wood, on which was set out a tea for one
person, all very dainty, from the small china cup and saucer on its
white damask napkin to the thinly cut bread and butter.

Lady O'Gara had been thinking that if Mrs. Wade did not wish to be
identified with Bride Sweeney, she should not leave her school-prizes
about.

"Ah, you are looking at that old book," Mrs. Wade said, setting down
her little tray, while she spread a tea-cloth on the table. "They are
very dull stories. Even a convent-school girl could not extract much
from them. I'm sorry it's so plain a tea. If I'd known your Ladyship
was coming I'd have had some cakes made."

"This home-made bread is delicious," Lady O'Gara said. "But, won't you
have some tea too?"

"No, thank you. I am not one for tea at every hour of the day like
Mrs. Horridge. I take my tea when you are taking your dinner. You
wouldn't like a boiled egg now? I've one little hen laying."

Her voice was coaxing. Now that Lady O'Gara could see the face in full
light she thought it an innocent and gentle face. The eyes still
looked upward with a kind of passion in their depths. She remembered
her husband's epithet,--"ardent." It well described Mrs. Wade's eyes.
Just now the ardour was for herself. She wondered why.

"Thank you so very much," she said sweetly. "I don't think I could eat
an egg, though. Your tea is delicious."

"The cream is from your own Kerries. Mrs. Horridge arranged it for me
that I could get the milk from your dairy. It would make any tea good.
She brings me the milk twice daily, or