“She was most unselfish and thoughtful, good to the poor and the aged, kind to animals, very gay and gracious in her manners, sweet-tempered, clever, and fascinating.” “Oh, but fancy the likes of me being clever, and fascinating!” “Why not? But you will soon begin to learn to speak like other people. To-morrow I shall write down a list of expressions you are not to use. You are not to say ‘ould’ for old, ‘ye’ for you, ‘the likes of,’ ‘sure now,’ and ‘by your leave.’ Talk but little, listen, and read a great deal.” “I see what you mean; I’m to keep my ears cocked. I’m not too bad to look at, but when I open my lips I am like the girl in the fairy tale, and my mouth drops toads and serpents.” “There are no toads or serpents in Ireland you know. Still, just at present, until you see and hear a little more, I think you will find that, except between you and me, silence is golden.” After a considerably long silence, during which Miss Usher knitted steadily and her charge stared about her, the latter said-- “Well, I’ve been listening to those two girls in blue carrying on with the nosey young man; and the little one told him he was ‘a rotter’ and the other said he was ‘pulling her leg.’ What sort of chat, do ye call that?” “Oh, they are not ladies,” explained Miss Usher, who was distinctly disconcerted. “Yes; but how am I to know the differ between the talk of ladies and the talk of them as is not?--not being a lady meself.” “Oh, you will soon understand.” “But those two are dressed as well as I am, and better,” protested the girl, “and how----” “Dress reminds me,” interrupted Miss Usher, “that you have several fittings to-morrow, and a busy day”; and, suddenly rising to her feet, she added, “It is getting on for ten o’clock. Shall we retire?” On the way to their rooms, the two paused on a landing before a great mirror; they halted involuntarily, and gazed at themselves as they stood side by side; or rather, they both gazed at the reflection of Lady Joseline Dene. “I’m just a daw in peacock’s feathers!” she exclaimed at last. “It’s all mighty fine, my beautiful dress, and my hair done up in the fashion. Oh, dear me! I’m a regular take-in. I shall never be as nice as I look.” “Yes, you will,” said her companion, leading her into her room; “and remember, dear child, that you are nice to your father when he comes to-morrow.” “I’m all in a tremble, when I think of it. How can I be nice?” “By not being shy and shrinking and plainly afraid of him. He is a shy man himself--people call it reserve. For years he has shut up his real self, and no one has seen it. I believe that you hold the key.” “But I shall never dare to turn it in the lock.” “Why not? You are his daughter, a gift given back to him to cheer and brighten the end of his life. Mind that you do it.” “I’ll try. Anyway, I’ll put it in my prayers.” “Do,” replied Miss Usher, as she closed the door. CHAPTER XXI