AFTER the first greeting between Frank Maynard and his friend Prescott, upon the former's return from Staffordshire, and when they had fairly sat down in Frank's room for a talk, Prescott said,— “Now, Frank, let me hear all about what you have been doing. Your letters were not long, and you seemed enjoying yourself down there, Frank. I suppose Teddy is just about the same as he used to be.” “Just the same,” Frank laughed; “he pretends to assist his father in the business, but I fancy the material advantage, derived by Painter and Co. from Teddy's services, is slight indeed. He went round the manufactory with me, and I find that his knowledge upon the subject of china is absolutely nil. I question if he would know the difference between Dresden and Sèvres, or between Limoges and Etruscan; and I should imagine his ideas on the subject of accounts, are, if possible, even more vague. No, he is just what he used to be—a careless, warm-hearted Irishman, and the best fellow in the world.” “But Mr. Drake is not Irish, Frank?” “Not the least in the world. A particularly practical, long-headed, sensible Englishman. His Celtic blood all comes from his mother. She is as Irish in her way as he is in his, and so is his sister.” “Is Miss Drake pretty, Frank?” “Yes,” Frank said, “very pretty; an awfully jolly girl, Prescott, not the least bit of nonsense about her—downright and straightforward, you know.” Prescott glanced up. But he saw that Frank was too outspoken in his praise to be the least in love. “Tall or short, Frank?” “Tall,” Frank said; “a good deal like Teddy; fancy Teddy a pretty girl, and you've got Sarah.” “And there was a cousin with an Irish name, Frank, wasn't there? You mentioned her in your first letter, but you did not allude to her afterwards. What was she like?” Frank was longer in giving his answer this time. “Well,” he said, slowly, “Miss O'Byrne would hardly be considered very pretty, at least I don't think most people would call her so. No, I should say not. She was rather short; and, yes, I should say, and plump.” Prescott glanced across again at Frank, and a little amused smile came across his face at the cautious way in which he had spoken. But Frank was looking thoughtfully into the fire, and did not notice it. “There were other young ladies staying in the house you said, Frank. Was there anything special about any of them?” “No,” Frank said, carelessly; “they were a very jolly lot of girls; I had great fun down there.” “Lots of dancing, and music, and so on, I suppose, Frank?” “No end,” Frank said. “Any of the girls sing well?” “Katie sang splendidly; one of the finest voices I ever heard in my life,” Frank said, enthusiastically. “Katie?” Prescott repeated questioningly. “Miss O'Byrne,” Frank explained. “Ah,” Prescott said, with a smile, “the stout little cousin.”