ly one servant remained, to
be rented with the premises, as is frequently the Irish fashion. The Old
Hall has not always been managed thus economically, it is easy to see,
and Miss Llewellyn-Joyce speaks with the utmost candour of her poverty,
as indeed the ruined Irish gentry always do. I well remember taking tea
with a family in West Clare where in default of a spoon the old squire
stirred his cup with the poker, a proceeding apparently so usual that he
never thought of apologising for it as an oddity.

The Hall has a lodge, which is a sort of miniature Round Tower, at the
entrance gate, and we see nothing for it but to import a brass-buttoned
boy from the nearest metropolis, where we must also send for a second
maid.

"That'll do when you get him," objected Benella, "though boys need a lot
of overseeing; but as nobody can get in or come out o' that gate without
help, I shall have to go to the lodge every day now, and set down
there with my sewin' from four to six in the afternoon, or whenever the
callin' hours is. When I engaged with you, it wasn't for any particular
kind of work; it was to make myself useful. I've been errand-boy and
courier, golf-caddie and footman, beau, cook, land agent, and mother to
you all, and I guess I can be a lodge-keeper as well as not."

Francesca had her choice of residing either with Salemina or with me,
during our week of separation, and drove in my company to Rosaleen
Cottage, to make up her mind. While she was standing at my gate, engaged
in reflection, she espied a small cabin not far away, and walked toward
it on a tour of investigation. It proved to have three tiny rooms--a
bedroom, sitting-room, and kitchen. The rent was only two pounds a
month, it is true, but it was in all respects the most unattractive,
poverty-stricken, undesirable dwelling I ever saw. It was the small
stove in the kitchen that kindled Francesca's imagination, and she made
up her mind instantly to become a householder on her own account. I
tried to dissuade her; but she is as firm as the Rock of Cashel when
once she has set her heart upon anything.

"I shall be almost your next-door neighbour, Penelope," she coaxed, "and
of course you will give me Benella. She will sleep in the sitting-room,
and I will do the cooking. The landlady says there is no trouble
about food. 'What to ate?' she inquired, leaning out sociably over the
half-door. 'Sure it'll drive up to your very doore just.' And here is
the 'wee g