He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to take care of herself in his absence, leaves the room. "He's a dale o' talk," says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back is turned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him, or at all events is not what she herself would call "partial to him." "Yes," says Joyce. "He is very conversational. How it rains, still." "Yes, it does," says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all put out by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the "ginthry" for many years, and being well up to their "quare ways." A thought, however, that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past--ever since, indeed, she found her young lady could not return home until morning--now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn. "I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night wid me, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin' out o' me own." "Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly? I'm glad to hear that for your sake." "Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials always dhrop down upon one just whin laste wanted." "Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room at all," says Joyce, laughing. "I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to you." "Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be of any sarvice to ye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undher my protection, and that no gossip can come nigh ye." The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head, or rather under her feet. "I'm delighted to be with you," says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile. "But as for protection--well, the Land Leaguers round here are not so bad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village like this." "There's worse than Land Leaguers," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's thim who talk." "Talk--of what?" asks Joyce, a little vaguely. "Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there's cruel people in the world," says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. "An' the fact o' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the night wid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angry wid me now, Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye." Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die within her. A kind of sick feeling renders her speechless; she had never thought of that--of--of the idea of impropriety being suggested as part of this most unlucky escapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as though she ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet she had done all for the best.