gs hung in
parallel lines from the ceiling, and there was a mysterious little
railed-off chamber at the back of the house, reached by a swing door,
on which the word "Bar" was set forth in gold letters, with a printed
legend underneath announcing that Diana McNally was licensed to sell
wines and spirits to be consumed on the premises. Here Bridget and
Mary Nolan held sway. They were "stale girls" in the opinion of the
neighbours, and therefore, as their aunt felt, the most suited for
this post. Maggie, their youngest sister, migrated between shop and
bar, and spent much of her time in rolling up "ha'porths o' twist" in
scraps of newspaper. Elleney, who was "tasty," and possessed of a
wonderful light hand, turned her talent for millinery to account, and
soon Mrs. McNally was able to add trimmed hats and ready-made dresses
to the other departments of her flourishing concern. Predisposed as
she was by nature to like any helpless young creature, she had rapidly
grown to appreciate the girl's talents, and was now genuinely fond of
her, though it must be owned that her daughters occasionably grumbled,
and that the real nieces were undisguisedly jealous.

Bridget looked up now, with a sniff, as Elleney began with great haste
to hand the eggs about the table.

"You've been long enough over it, anyhow," she remarked. "Mary and me
was wonderin' whether 'twas milkin' the cow ye were or bakin' the
bread."

"An' she hasn't brought the toast yet," grumbled Mary, drawing up her
chair.

"It's very near done," returned Elleney eagerly. "Pat Rooney said he'd
have it ready by the time I come back."

"Pat Rooney!" exclaimed the eight voices, in varying tones of
amazement and disapproval; even Mrs. McNally's sounding forth a deep
note of wondering concern.

"Pat Rooney, child! What brings him into the house at this time o' th'
mornin'? What brings him here at all to-day indeed?"

"He come to fetch his pipe," explained Elleney, scarlet with
confusion; "and when he seen me so run, an' so put about because I was
a bit behind, he offered to stay an' help me. It's him that's makin'
the toast."

Juliana McNally, a frosty-faced person, no longer in her first youth,
looked round with a scandalised face.

"Did ye ever hear the like o' that?" she exclaimed. "Pat Rooney! The
impident fellow! If I was you, m'mah, I'd walk him out o' the kitchen
this very minute. Ye had no call to let him in at all, Elleney. Not
one of us 'ud ever dream o'