, as she remarked,
anxious past endurance. She had grounds for fearing that John, who might
step to an alliance with any one of the proudest houses in the Kingdom,
would marry a beggar-maid. As for Jane, she was the natural prey of
a threadbare poet. Mrs. Lackstraw heard of Mr. Patrick O'Donnell,
and demanded the right to inspect him. She doubted such perfect
disinterestedness in any young man as that he should slave at
account-keeping to that Laundry without a prospect of rich remuneration,
and the tale of his going down to the city for a couple of hours each
day to learn the art of keeping books was of very dubious import in a
cousin of Captain Con O'Donnell. 'Let me see your prodigy,' she said,
with the emphasis on each word. Patrick was presented at her table. She
had steeled herself against an Irish tongue. He spoke little, appeared
simple, professed no enthusiasm for the Laundry. And he paid no
compliments to Jane: of the two he was more interested by the elder
lady, whose farm and dairy in Surrey he heard her tell of with a shining
glance, observing that he liked thick cream: there was a touch of
home in it. The innocent sensuality in the candid avowal of his tastes
inspired confidence. Mrs. Lackstraw fished for some account of his home.
He was open to flow on the subject; he dashed a few sketches of mother
and sisters, dowerless girls, fresh as trout in the stream, and of his
own poor estate, and the peasantry, with whom he was on friendly terms.
He was an absentee for his education. Sweet water, pure milk, potatoes
and bread, were the things he coveted in plenty for his people and
himself, he said, calling forth an echo from Mrs. Lackstraw, and
an invitation to come down to her farm in the Spring. 'That is, Mr.
O'Donnell, if you are still in London.'

'Oh, I'm bound apprentice for a year,' said he.

He was asked whether he did not find it tiresome work.

'A trifle so,' he confessed.

Then why did he pursue it, the question was put.

He was not alive for his own pleasure, and would like to feel he was
doing a bit of good, was the answer.

Could one, Mrs. Lackstraw asked herself, have faith in this young
Irishman? He possessed an estate. His brogue rather added to his air
of truthfulness. His easy manners and the occasional streak of correct
French in his dialogue cast a shadow on it. Yet he might be an ingenuous
creature precisely because of the suspicion roused by his quaint
unworldliness that he might b