After the concert came a day of reckoning; that is to say, a winding up of the financial part of the performance. The parish complacently expected a substantial sum for coal and blankets, tea and sugar. Boots? Certainly there would be boots; and they were badly wanted. The simple folk had made their calculation something after this fashion: three hundred shillings was fifteen pounds, anyhow; the room was free. Take an average of five shillings all round, was not that seventy-five pounds? The neighbourhood nodded, and grinned, and figuratively rubbed its hands. But unfortunately the neighbourhood had reckoned without Mrs. Doran and her little bills for carting, hiring, lighting, decorations, printing, and refreshments--the amount came to £57 11_s._ 6_d._--and when she handed the small balance to the Rector and the Rev. Father Daly, their countenances expressed the blankest dismay. The lady was in her own house, entrenched in a business-like attitude behind her writing-table, as she tendered the cheque with an air of bold assurance, not unflavoured with patronage. For a moment there was an awful silence. Mr. West took the bit of paper, stared at it as if he could not credit his faculties, cleared his throat, and passed it on to the priest. Father Daly became red in the face (he was a man of full habit and of somewhat impetuous temper). He spoke at last, in his deep rich brogue. “Goodness preserve us, Mrs. Doran! what does this mean? What has become of all the money for our poor people?” “Become?” she repeated. “Some was spent in their interest; the balance is in your hand--a cheque on the Munster Bank.” “But surely to goodness----” he reiterated. “There are my accounts,” she interrupted angrily. The lady was not prepared for this inquisition, and believed that the two men would thankfully accept her largesse and so depart. “I certainly understood that the refreshments were provided gratis,” put in Mr. West, with unprecedented courage. “Pray who said so? I’m sure _I_ never did. See, it is merely stated,” snatching up a programme, “_There will be refreshments_.” A pause. Yes; the fact was patent; the statement had involved no promise; the matter had been understood, taken for granted, but Mrs. Doran never permitted anything to be _taken_ from her. “Surely you don’t suppose for a moment,” she resumed, with rising temper, “that _I_ was to feed three hundred people, out of my own pocket, now do you?” and she threw herself back in her chair, and contemplated her visitors with her hard black eyes. “Well, yes, ma’am,” rejoined the priest, “I must declare that I was under that impression. After all, it was only once in a way.” “What nonsense!” she exclaimed. “Why, I was the only person who _gave_ anything. The room, the piano, my servants’ time, my own time and exertions, all the trouble. However”--and here she gave a sniff of definite resolve--“it will be a lesson to me not to put myself out another time.”