“I had tea with her once,” replied Miss Usher drily. “Besides this, I would help her to weed the too forcible expressions out of her vocabulary--expressions such as ‘For the love of God,’ ‘The saints protect me,’ ‘Faix,’ ‘Bedad,’ ‘Musha,’ and ‘Begorra.’ Of course, a month is not long enough to supply the necessary instruction, but it will clip off the sharp corners and give her a little polish before she faces the severe ordeal of being presented to Lady Mulgrave and your relations. To leave her for a short time among her old surroundings would be a true kindness to her. She will have by that time become accustomed to her new character, and may have attained a certain amount of self-possession and confidence.” “All right then, Miss Usher; but the kindness is entirely yours. If you will continue to be her guide, counsellor, and friend, you lay me under a lifelong obligation. I will return home the day after the funeral and will leave you in sole charge. Shall you remain here?” “Yes, that Mary may presently see herself as others--her old associates--see her.” “Miss Usher, you are a clever woman.” “No, no, only sensible. Bence has our brains.” “Of course you will have a private sitting-room, a carriage, and a maid?” “Oh, no maid yet,” she protested--“we are not quite ready for that; but we will be glad of this sitting-room and an outside car. And now I’m going to suggest something funny. Please send her a gold watch and chain. I gather that to an Irish peasant--and she is that--a gold watch and a long chain represent the visible sign of a great rise in life. It will come home to her as a most tangible proof that she is a girl of some position. Every time she looks at the watch she will be reminded of this fact. The watch and chain will give her proper pride and consequence.” “I cannot imagine it; but you know women, and I do not.” “You see, you must approach your daughter through the _Mary Foley_ side of her character--touch her sensibilities as the peasant girl. There is one thing for which you have to be devoutly thankful.” “Yes, and what is that?” he asked gravely. “She has no lover.” “Good heavens!”--and he grew suddenly white. “What an awful idea!” “But surely a very commonplace idea. She is the beauty, or, at any rate, the _boast_ of the county. She is twenty-one; she might have been married. Think of that!” “Oh, I could not entertain such a horrible notion. Yes, I own I have much to be thankful for.” “Her inherited disposition, the race in her veins, has undoubtedly been her safeguard. She, as old Mike declared, was always for ‘picking and choosing like a born lady.’ Her suitors were beneath her standard; she is too fastidious.” “Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, with pious emphasis.