ELLENEY

Mrs. McNally's house was situated at the extreme end of the village,

and looked not upon the street, but right out into the glen, so that

when Elleney opened her attic window in the morning her blue eyes

feasted on a wilderness of trees, exquisite at this season with an

infinite variety of tints; for the tender bloom of an Irish spring is

only surpassed in beauty by the glories of an Irish autumn. The

undulating masses that would in October glow with a myriad fires were

now clad in the colours of the opal, delicate pinks and blues and

greys of yet unopened buds forming a background to the pure vigorous

green of larch or chestnut in full leaf, while here and there a group

of wild cherry-trees--trees which in a few months would be clothed in

the hues of the sunset--caught the morning light now on raiment as

snowy as the summit of the Jungfrau.

Elleney gazed, and rubbed big eyes yet heavy with slumber, and gazed

again; then she heaved a deep sigh, half of rapture, half of regret.

"It's beautiful, entirely," she said. "An' that big black hill at the

back o' the trees is the grandest ever I seen. But I'd sooner be

lookin' out at the little green hills at our own place, with me poor

father--the Lord ha' mercy on his soul!--walkin' about on them."

She passed her hand across her eyes now for another reason, and then

sighed again, but presently took herself to task.

"Sure, I've no call at all to be frettin'; I have a right to know

better, so I have. Me poor dada is gone where he's out of his

throubles, please God; an' amn't I too well off myself here in this

grand place, with me a'nt an' everywan so kind to me? Ye ought to be

ashamed o' yourself, Elleney, to go cryin' an' frettin' when it's down

on your knees ye should be, thankin' God. Hurry up now, an' on with

your clothes an' get the breakfast! Sunday mornin' an' all, an' the

girls down an' workin' about, I'll engage."

These remonstrances, which were made aloud with exceptional severity

of aspect, but in the sweetest, softest little voice in the world,

appeared to have the desired effect. The eyes were dried, the sobs

checked, and soon Elleney emerged from her garret, and came clattering

down the corkscrew stairs in her unyielding little best boots, clad

all in her Sunday finery, every sunshiny hair in its place, and her

blooming face a vision of wonder and delight to any chance beholder.

One such beholder encountered her in the narrow passage downstairs,

and respectfully flattened himself against the wall to let her pass.

"It's a fine mornin', Miss Elleney," said the young man.

Elleney started, stared, and then broke into a laugh.

"It's you, is it, Pat Rooney? I didn't know ye, ye're so grand this

mornin'. You do be generally all over flour--I never see you without

lookin' out for flour."

"An' I never see you, Miss Elleney," responded Pat Rooney gallantly,

"without bein' put in mind of another kind o' flower. Sure, you look

the very same as a rose to-day."

"Not at all," laughed Elleney, blushing, but quite frank and

unconcerned; "I wouldn't ask to be thought aiqual to anything so grand

as that. A daisy maybe, or--"

"Elleney!" called a shrill voice from some distant region. "_Elleney!_

We are all famished entirely. Girl alive, do ye forget it's your week

for the breakfast? I never heard the like! We've been waitin' this

half-hour."

"Laws," ejaculated Elleney under her breath, and with a

conscience-stricken face. "I didn't forget; but sure I didn't know

what o'clock it was, an' there's the eggs to boil an' all. Me cousin

Juliana 'ull be murderin' me. I'm just bringin' it, Ju," she called

back apprehensively. "And goodness only knows if the kettle 'ull be

boilin', itself," she added in a distracted undertone, "an' I'm afther

forgetting my big aperon upstairs, an' if I go an' black my best dress

me a'nt 'ull be the death o' me."

"Aisy now, don't be tormentin' yourself that way," cried Pat

soothingly. "Sure I'll just go along wid ye into the kitchen, an' if I

don't have that kettle bilin' in next to no time my name's not Pat

Rooney. It's me that's used to fires--ye'll see how I'll blow up yours

for ye, miss. There now, wasn't it by the greatest good luck I looked

in this mornin' to pick up my pipe that I left down below in the

bakehouse? Cheer up, Miss Elleney--we'll not be keepin' them long

waitin' for their breakfasts now."

Even while speaking the young baker had preceded the girl into the

kitchen, possessed himself of the bellows, and blown up the fire; he

now deftly dropped an entire basketful of eggs into a saucepan, and,

with a large loaf in one hand and a knife in the other, began with

almost incredible speed to cut off thick rounds.

"I suppose ye have the cloth laid?" he inquired presently.

"Me cousin Henerietta does that; I only has the breakfast itself to

get, an' there's not much trouble in that, on'y I'm such a slowcoach,

an' someway--I don't know how it was--my wits went wool-gatherin' this

mornin'."

"Well, I'll tell ye what, miss; if ye'll wet the tay an' pop the pot

down on the hob, the eggs 'ull be done, an' by the time ye have them

brought in the bread 'ull be toasted illigant. Herself won't know ye,

the way ye'll have got up the breakfast so quick."

"I'm very thankful to ye, Pat," said Elleney gratefully. "I'm sure I

don't know what in the world I'd have done without ye. But it's too

bad to be givin' ye all that trouble."

"Not at all, miss; no trouble at all. Sure I wouldn't have it on me

conscience for you to be roastin' that lovely face off o' yourself at

this terrible hot fire. The egg-cups is there on the shelf behind

ye--I can see them from here. There now, sure ye have it all

grand--wait till I open the door for ye. Now I'll have the loveliest

lot o' toast ready for ye when ye come back. That thray's too heavy

for ye entirely--it's a poor case altogether that I haven't got

another pair o' hands."

Elleney's gay little laugh trilled out again, and she shot a glance of

confiding gratitude from under her thick dark lashes in the direction

of the young baker which set the honest fellow's heart dancing, though

he well knew how little such innocent warmth meant.

"God bless her," he murmured as he returned to his toasting fork; "if

a dog done anything for her she'd look at it the same. If she wasn't

the mistress's niece itself, ye might whistle for her, Pat, me boy."

Meanwhile Elleney had gone staggering along the passage with her heavy

tray, and now bumped it against the parlour door as an intimation that

she would like some one to open it.

This unspoken request was acceded to so suddenly that she almost fell

forward into the room.

"I was waitin' on the eggs," she explained hurriedly, as she recovered

her balance and tottered forward with her burden; "but here they are

for yous now, and the tea is wet this good bit, an' the toast is very

near ready."

The room was full of women; no less than eight of them sat expectantly

round the empty board. Besides Mrs. McNally herself and her four

daughters, three nieces had been added to her family on the death of

their mother, Mrs. McNally's only sister.

"Sure they're all the same as me own," the good woman was wont to say,

looking round affectionately at the girls. "There's times when I have

to be thinkin' which is which--upon me honour, there is." And

thereupon she would roll her broad shoulders, and wink with both eyes

together after her own good-natured fashion; and no one who lived in

the house with her could doubt that she spoke the truth.

Elleney had only recently been added to the group; she spoke of the

head of the house as "me a'nt," but she was in truth no relation to

the kindly soul who had taken compassion on her destitute condition,

being a niece of the late Mr. McNally's first wife. Perhaps no other

woman in the world would thus have admitted her to a circle already

somewhat inconveniently large; but, as Mrs. McNally said, "One more or

less didn't make much differ, an' sure the Lord 'ud be apt to make it

up to her, an' Elleney was a useful little girl, a great hand at her

needle, an' with a wonderful turn for business, God bless her."

Mrs. McNally invariably alluded to the odd little house where her many

avocations were carried on as her "establishment," and spoke

habitually of "the business." It would have been hard to define the

precise nature of this business. There was a bakery attached to it,

over which Pat Rooney presided, driving round the country each

afternoon with the results of his labours. Juliana and Henrietta

McNally sold groceries at one counter, and Matilda and Maria sold

calico and flannel and boots at another. Hams and stockings 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' such a thing, would we, Henny?"

"Indeed we would _not_," returned Henny or Henrietta as she was

indifferently called in the family. "Cockin' him up that way. He had a

right to know better, an' not go forgettin' himself and his place

altogether."

"Aye, indeed," chimed in Bridget. "Set him up! Him and his ould cart."

"Then if it was nothin' but the cart that ailed him, Bridget,"

returned Juliana severely, "there wouldn't be much to complain of.

I'll throuble ye not to be turnin' up your nose at the beautiful new

cart me mother sent for all the way to Dublin. Ye paid pounds and

pounds for that same cart, didn't ye, m'mah?"

"To be sure I did," responded Mrs. McNally promptly. "There, now,

don't be upsettin' yourselves, girls. Elleney didn't know any better,

she's that innicent, poor little girl. She won't do it again, I'll

engage--will ye, Elleney? Ye see, me dear," she added in a

confidential undertone, "we do have to be very particular in an

establishment like this. 'Twouldn't do for me at all to go lettin' a

boy like Pat Rooney forget himself. He's a very decent boy, poor

fellow, an' his mother--the Lord ha' mercy on her!--was a most

respectable poor woman. But he must be kept in his place, me child,

an' ye see--"

"A-ah, m'mah, in the name of goodnsss sit down and pour out the tea,"

interrupted Anna Maria impatiently. "I'm dyin' for me cup. An' sure ye

haven't brought us anythin' at all to eat yet, Elleney. Off with you

now, an' bring that same toast whoever made it. The poor child's

frightened out of her wits. Sure what harm if ye did ask Pat Rooney to

help ye, itself--ye can soon get shut of him again. Ju, for mercy's

sake take that crabby ould face off o' ye. 'Pon me word 'tis enough to

curdle the milk."

Anna Maria's own face was of the round good-humoured order. "She took

after the mother," the neighbours said, and had certainly inherited a

large share of kindliness and jollity.

"Faith! Nanny's right," cried Mrs. McNally, relaxing. "Go fetch the

toast, Elleney, and give Mr. Pat Rooney his marchin' orders at the

same time."

"What am I to say?" inquired Elleney, her eyes round with alarm above

cheeks that were still crimson.

"Bid him get out of that," returned her aunt, laughing.

Elleney took up her tray, and went away with a lagging step. The

kitchen door was wide open, and in the aperture stood Pat, flushed

with his exertions, and holding triumphantly aloft an immense dish of

beautifully browned toast.

"There now," he cried jubilantly, "I'll throuble them to put their

teeth through the whole o' that in a hurry. Isn't that a fine lot? But

I know they does be great aiters within there."

"I'm very thankful to ye, Pat," said Elleney, with a downcast face.

"Sure I'm not meanin' to show disrespect," resumed he, quick to note

her expression, but mistaking its cause. "It's a powerful big family

your a'nt has, first and last, and why wouldn't they ait? I'll tell ye

what, Miss Elleney, I'll just stop here in the chimbley corner, an' if

they does be wantin' any more toast I'll have it made for them afore

you can turn round."

"Oh no, Pat," cried Elleney in alarm. "That wouldn't do at all. Me

a'nt bid me tell ye--me a'nt said--"

"Well, what did she say, miss, dear?" inquired Pat, as she faltered.

"She wasn't best pleased," stammered the girl. "She thought I done

wrong lettin' you help me; she bid me give ye marchin' orders"--catching

at what seemed to her the least offensive manner of conveying her

aunt's behest.

"Well, I can soon march," said Pat, in a slightly offended tone, and

turning even a deeper red than before. "I'll be off out o' this in a

minute."

"Sure ye're not angry with me, Pat?" said Elleney timidly, as she

followed him to the door. "I'm very grateful for all ye done for me."

"To be sure you are," said Rooney, without turning his head, and in

another moment the house door slammed behind him.

Elleney returned somewhat mournfully to the parlour, there to find the

whole family in a state of violent excitement.

Mrs. McNally had just received a letter, which she was clutching fast

with both fat hands; while the seven girls were simultaneously

endeavouring to read its contents over her broad shoulders.

"If yez 'ull sit down like good children," she exclaimed, as Elleney

entered, "I'll read it all out--every word. An' yez 'ull all know as

soon as meself. But ye have me distracted entirely, tormentin' me the

way ye're doin' now. Musha! did anybody ever see such a scrawl as the

man writes?"

"Sure, I can see it plain enough from here," cried Juliana, and with a

sudden deft movement she twitched the document out of her mother's

hands. "I'll read it, m'mah, in half the time you do be thinkin' about

it."

"Very well, me dear, very well," agreed Mrs. McNally resignedly. "Ye

have the best right, afther all. It concerns you more nor me."

Juliana smoothed out the paper, and began to read in a high-pitched

monotonous voice, and without any regard to punctuation, of which,

indeed, in all probability, the letter was devoid.

"'Dear Mrs. McNally,--I write these few lines hoping you are quite

well as I am at present thank God it's a long time since we come

across each other but I haven't forgot the old times and I am sure

yourself is the same I did be hearin' a while ago about the fine

family of daughters you have God bless them and how well you prospered

in business dear Mrs. McNally I have one son a fine young man that I

do be anxious to settle in life--'

"Look at that now!" put in Mrs. McNally jocularly. "Didn't I say the

letter was more for you than for me, girls?"

"Whisht! can't you whisht?" put in Henrietta eagerly. "Go on, Ju!"

"'Settle in life,' resumed Ju. 'The farm is doin' finely for me thanks

be to God though I'm not able to stock it as well as I'd like these

bad times.' He's lookin' out for a bit o' money, ye see, m'mah?"

"To be sure he is," responded her mother comfortably. "Trust Tim

Brennan to be lookin' out for that. An' why wouldn't he, the poor ould

fellow? Dear knows, it's hard set the most o' the farmers is to live

at all. He's a cute ould schemer, Tim is, though."

"'There's not one o' the girls in these parts I'd let him take up with

at all,' went on the reader, 'but it come to me mind that if you was

willin' we might make up a match between himself an' one o' your fine

young daughters--'

"Yous 'ull have all the luck, I suppose?" put in Maggie Nolan

enviously.

"Not at all. What's that he says here about nieces, Ju?" returned Mrs.

McNally, leaning over her daughter's shoulder, and pointing with her

plump forefinger.

"'Or maybe one of them three nieces I was hearin' ye have livin' with

ye I knew your poor sister Bridget R.I.P. as well as I know yourself

an' I know all she done for her family.'"

"The sharpness o' that!" interrupted Henrietta. "The ould fellow knows

me A'nt Bridget had a nice little fortun', an' I'll engage he made

sure the three of yous has a share in the business."

"Young nieces," soliloquised Matilda, looking pensively at Bridget and

Mary.

"Young daughters, too, if ye please," returned Bridget with spirit,

and her glance fell upon Juliana.

"Well, go on, Ju, finish it," said Mrs. McNally, laughing

immoderately. "You can all be pulling caps for him afterwards."

"'Me son,' read Juliana, 'has business in Dublin this next week an' if

you've no objections he could run out on an early train some mornin'

an' pay his respects to yourself an' the girls an' he can be tellin'

ye all about our place an' his prospects in life he's the only son I

have an' its a good farm an' a comfortable house an' many a girl would

think she was doin' well for herself so hopin' you'll think well of

the idea I will say no more this time yours ancettery, TIMOTHY

BRENNAN. P.S.--My son Brian is six foot high an' has a beautiful head

of hair he is very--' What in the name o' fortun' is that word,

m'mah?"

"Hearty, is it?" said Mrs. McNally, craning her short neck. "No--happy,

maybe--no, that's not it. _Healthy_, that's it! 'He is very healthy.'"

"Laws!" said Henrietta, "that's a quare thing to be sayin'. Who cares

whether he's healthy or not?"

"A-ah, me dear," returned her mother sagely, "when ye get to my age

ye'll know it makes a great deal o' differ--especially to a farmer.

The poor d'da! Rest his soul!--well, well, we won't be talkin' o' them

times, but he was a great sufferer; an' if it was a farmer he was the

house wouldn't have held him. It's a terrible thing for a poor farmer

to be tryin' to go about his place, an' him not gettin' his health.

I'm glad this young fellow is healthy."

"Six foot!" commented Matilda, who was inclined to be sentimental.

"A beautiful head of hair," exclaimed Anna Maria, with a giggle.

"Troth, if it's me he takes a fancy to I'll be combin' it for him."

"Well," said Juliana indignantly, "I think ye're takin' too much on

yourself, Nanny, to go pickin' him up that way. There's others has a

better right to be considered first."

"You're the oldest, of course," said Anna Maria meekly.

"There's others older nor her, though," burst out Bridget.

"The oldest daughter has the first claim," cried Juliana, with

heightened colour.

"To be sure, to be sure," said Mrs. McNally nervously. She was very

much in awe of her firstborn, who was indeed possessed of a

considerable amount of determination. "The young man, of course, 'ull

make his own choice, but I must say I think it 'ud be only becoming if

it was Ju."

Juliana glanced triumphantly round on the row of crestfallen faces,

and a sudden silence fell, during which Elleney, who had stood

listening with deep interest, suddenly remembered the now sodden toast

and handed it dutifully round.

Maggie Nolan's eyes met hers in wrathful protest as she helped

herself.

"Did ye ever see sich a girl as Ju?" she whispered.

"A regular grab-all. Of course if me a'nt goes favourin' her, the poor

fellow 'ull have to take her. But I pity him, aye do I."

"Sure maybe he won't," whispered Elleney back, consolingly. "He'll be

apt to be pickin' wan o' the young ones--I shouldn't wonder if it was

yourself, Maggie."

"If it wasn't for the money I dare say you'd have as good a chance as

the rest of us," said Maggie, mollified by this tribute; "but of

course the father wouldn't hear of any girl without a fortun'."

By an odd freak of fate, however, it was Elleney who first had speech

with Brian Brennan when he came to seek a wife in Mrs. McNally's

house. Elleney, indeed, was not in the house when his eyes first fell

upon her; she was kneeling on the doorstep, scrubbing it with might

and main. He had driven out from Dublin instead of coming by train,

and arrived in consequence earlier than was expected. Elleney wore the

pink cotton frock in which she went about her work of a morning; her

sleeves were rolled up, and her skirt pinned back. Her face was

flushed with a lovely colour, and the breeze lifted loose strands of

her nut-brown hair, as she squatted back on her heels in answer to the

stranger's salutation.

"Is Mrs. McNally within? I think she's expecting me."

"Oh," said Elleney, looking up with those big astonished eyes of hers,

"is it Mr. Brennan?"

"It's that same," responded Brian cheerfully.

Elleney jumped up, knocking over her pail in her agitation, and wiped

her little damp hands on her apron.

"Me a'nt is in the shop," she said hurriedly. "If ye'll walk inside

I'll call her in a minute."

"A-ha!" said Mr. Brian, "you're one o' the nieces, are ye? Are the

rest anyways like ye?"

"They wouldn't take it as a compliment if ye were to say so," replied

Elleney. "This way, sir."

The big young man followed her into the parlour. He was a very big

young man, and he had a beautiful head of hair, black and curly; and

he looked extremely well fed and pleased with the world in general.

"Bless me, child, what a show ye are!" exclaimed Mrs. McNally, when

Elleney breathlessly summoned her. "Look at your sleeves, and your

skirt tucked up an' all. I declare I'm ashamed of my life--"

"How could I know it was him?" protested Elleney.

"To be sure, to be sure, none of us expected him; an' any way it

doesn't matter about you. Here, pull down your sleeves, dear, and take

my place for a bit. Where's Ju?"

"She's above, doin' her hair, and Henny's sewin' the bows on her

dress."

"Well, well, I'll call them. You'll have to keep the shop goin'

altogether, Elleney, this day. All the girls is wild to have a chance,

an' I know ye won't mind doin' a bit extra."

"I wonder which it will be," meditated Elleney. "If I was him I'd take

Nanny."

But Mr. Brian seemed quite unmoved by Nanny's rollicking charms. He

was, indeed, to some extent struck by the appearance of Juliana, who,

with her hair done up into what her mother called a "shin-on"--a

fashion much affected when she was a young woman--and wearing a silk

dress with flounces innumerable of the terra-cotta hue beloved, for

some occult reason, of her kind, entered the room with an air of

stately magnificence. The young visitor was very respectful to

Juliana, and spoke in particularly genteel tones when addressing her.

But his eyes wandered perpetually towards the door, and an acute

observer might have detected a certain lengthening of visage at each

fresh arrival on the scene.

When the seven specimens of maidenhood, from among whom he was

expected to make his choice, were at length seated in various

constrained attitudes about the room, a dead silence fell, broken only

by an occasional nervous remark from Mrs. McNally, and a monosyllabic

response from the wooer. The relief was general when the "decent

body," engaged to help for the day, opened the door with a very black

hand, kicked it still further back with a gaping shoe, and finally

entered the room bearing a large tray.

A repast, which the lady aforesaid subsequently described as

"sumpchus," soon adorned the board, and Mrs. McNally, with a

deprecating giggle, advised Brian to sit next the partner he liked

best.

He hesitated, and cast a baffled glance round the room.

"Sure the whole of the family isn't here, is it?" he inquired.

"How many more would you want?" returned Juliana, with a playfulness

strongly tinged with asperity.

"Didn't I see another young lady an' I comin' in?" he persisted.

"Who in the name of wonder did he see, m'mah?" whispered Henrietta,

while the others looked blank.

"I b'lieve 'twas Elleney let him in," said Mrs. McNally. "The poor

fellow, he's that well-mannered he thinks bad o' sittin' down without

her. We're all here that can be here at present, Mr. Brian," she

remarked aloud. "Little Elleney that ye seen awhile ago is mindin' the

shop for me. We'll keep a bit hot for her till I go to take her

place."

"Oh! that indeed?" said Brian rather blankly. "Isn't it clever of her

to be able to mind the shop, and she so young? I s'pose she's the

youngest of them?"

"Well, there isn't much to choose between her and Maggie there,"

returned his hostess; "and, indeed, I may say the same o' my daughter

Anna Maria. There is but a year between the three, one way or the

other. Well, since you're so bashful, Mr. Brian, I'd best choose a

place for ye. Will ye sit there on me right, between Bridget and

Juliana? There does be safety in numbers, they say, so ye needn't be

afeard."

"Afeard is it?" responded Brian, with simulated jocularity, though his

countenance still wore an expression of dismay. "Troth! it 'ud be a

poor lookout if I was that easy frightened. 'Faint heart,' ye know."

But, though Mr. Brennan was very gallant and witty, the entertainment

was felt by every one to be somewhat flat, and the relief was general

when the young man proposed to go outside and smoke a bit of a pipe.

Mrs. McNally, however, considered it her duty to protest.

"Sure, we're not that particular," she observed, with her jolly laugh.

"Don't be goin' out in the cold, Mr. Brian."

"Why, what sort of a fellow would I be at all if I could forget myself

that way," he returned, rising with alacrity. "Would ye have me

pizenin' the young ladies? I hope I know me manners better."

"There's no denyin' he has elegant manners," commented his hostess, as

the door closed behind him. "I never wish to see a nicer young man.

Well, girls, what do ye think of him!"

"The poor fellow was shy, m'mah," said Juliana. "He kept blushin'

every time I looked at him."

"A-ah, g' long!" exclaimed Bridget, with startling warmth. "Not a

blush on him, then! Sure, it was his natural colour; he has a

beautiful complexion."

"His eyes was rovin' from one to the other," cried Anna Maria,

giggling; "I was near dyin' with laughin'. You could see as plain as

anything he was axin' himself all the time, "Will I have this one,' or

'Will I have that one?'"

"A-ah, not at all," cried Juliana, reddening. "I didn't see a sign of

his eyes rovin'. Anybody with a grain of sense 'ud know his mind was

pretty well made up."

"Listen to that, now!" laughed Nanny, who was certainly good-tempered.

"You're out there, Ju. No; but I'll tell you the way it was with him.

Says he to himself, looking at you, 'That one is the eldest and a fine

girl altogether, but her nose is too long.' An' then he'd look round

at Bridget, 'She's got a nice bit o' money,' he'd say, 'but she's a

bit too old for me.' An' then he'd look at me, 'A nice healthy lump of

a girl,' he'd say, 'but too many freckles.' An' then Maggie maybe 'ud

have a turn--"

"Och, don't be goin' on with such nonsense, child," interrupted her

mother, quick to observe certain tokens of an impending storm. "Don't

let him find yez quarrellin' an' fightin' when he does be comin' back.

Wait till I tell yez all he's afther tellin' me about his own place. I

questioned him a bit afore yez come down."

The girls crowded eagerly round her, and she repeated with unction the

description of the various glories which awaited the future Mrs. Brian

Brennan.

Every one had forgotten Elleney and her little bit of dinner; every

one, that is, except the new-comer, who, after casting a nervous

glance at the parlour window on finding himself outside the house, had

made straightway for the almost deserted shop.

Customers were not many at that hour of the day, and Elleney had only

sold a pound of bacon and a couple of bootlaces since her aunt's

departure. She was sorting ribbons with a somewhat melancholy face

when Brian passed through the glass door and made his way to the

counter.

"Is that where ye have yourself hidden?" he inquired gaily. "They

thought to keep ye shut up out o' me sight, but I was a match for them

as cute as they were. 'Twas a shame for them not to let you come in to

dinner."

"Sure somebody had to mind the shop," returned Elleney. Then her

little pink and white face dimpled all over with smiles. "Have ye

chose yet, Mr. Brian?" said she.

"Bedad, I think I have," quoth Brian, gazing at her admiringly.