Mrs. Connolly, regardless of the pelting rain and her best cap, takes a step forward. CHAPTER XXIII. "All is not golde that outward shewith bright." "I love everything that's old--old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine." "An' is it you, Miss Joyce? Glory be! What a day to be out! 'Tis drenched y'are, intirely! Oh! come in, me dear--come in, me darlin'! Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry!--come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an' take Mr. Beauclerk's horse from him. Oh! by the laws!--but y'are soaked! Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce? Was there niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm before nightfall?" There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she had listened to his warning. "It looked so fine two hours ago," says she, clambering down from the dog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly as almost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below. "Och! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather than there is upon a man. However, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father's daughter is dear to me--yes, come this way--up these stairs. 'Tis Anne Connolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door." "Oh! I'm so glad I found you," says Joyce, turning when she has reached Mrs. Connolly's bedroom to imprint upon that buxom widow's cheek a warm kiss. "It was a long way here--long, and so cold and wet." "An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly, taking off the girl's dripping outer garments. "To see Connor's Cross----" "Faith, 'twas little ye had to do! A musty ould tomb like that, wid nothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyard below there do ye? Musha! but 'tis quare the ginthry is! Och! me dear, 'tis wet y'are; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye." "I don't think I'm wet once my coats are off," says Joyce; and indeed, when those invaluable wraps are removed; it is proved beyond doubt--even Mrs. Connolly's doubt, which is strong--that her gown is quite dry. "You see, it was such a sudden rain," says Joyce, "and fortunately we saw the lights in this village almost immediately after it began." "Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant," says Mrs. Connolly. "'Twas well the early darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us, not knowin' yer road. An' how's all wid ye, me dear--Miss Barbara, an' the masther, an' the darling childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen that I'm thinkin' of takin' down to Masther Tommy this two weeks, but the ould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well?" "Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly." "Wisha--God keep ye so." "And how are all of you? When did you hear from America?"