“At any rate, she is a pleasant contrast to Belle, who spends half her time in bed, reading novels. And has the devil’s own temper,” remarked Denis in his basso profundo. “Hold your scurrilous tongue, sir,” bawled the Major. “What the deuce do _you_ know about Miss Redmond?” Then to George, “She has a fine high spirit, which I must say I admire in a woman”--that is, in a woman outside of his own family--“she has been accustomed to the best society all her life, and to a great deal of attention, and dozens of admirers. She is very gay and lively, and finds it uncommonly slow at Noone. Poor girl, she says every week seems a year. I tell her if she wants to make the time fly, she has only to draw a bill at three months. Eh! what? what? She’s a deuced pretty creature, and, begad, she and I are uncommonly good friends.” “She _flatters_ father, that’s why he likes her,” explained the fearless Cuckoo, as her mother rose from table; and before the Major had time to launch some furious and fitting retort, Cuckoo was already giggling in the hall. Bridgetstown was a house with long and windy passages, and Mrs. Malone and her daughter hurried into the drawing-room, whilst the men drew their chairs up to the dining-room fire. The Major lit a cigar, and began to talk “shop” (as a compliment to his step-son), reviving former memories of obsolete drill, and ancient mess anecdotes. George, on his part, assumed a polite interest in the recent autumn meetings and the odds on the Liverpool, and endeavoured to sympathise with the Major’s bitter disappointment in “the Blazeaway filly,” whom he had backed heavily at Fairyhouse races. Meanwhile Denis yawned, pulled Boozle’s tail (thereby causing Boozle to lash it about furiously) and, when his father was not looking, helped himself liberally to port. After the Major had related his favourite stock story, about a staff officer, a river and a chest of drawers, George and his brother joined their relatives in the drawing-room, whilst the elder gentleman adjourned to his own den, to his pipe, his sporting papers, and his betting-book. The drawing-room was cold and cheerless, despite a fire and lamps. Mrs. Malone rarely entered it, save to dust the ornaments, and superintend Cuckoo’s practising. In answer to her brother George’s request, Cuckoo seated herself before the grand piano with the utmost self-possession, and proceeded to perform a series of the most amazing exploits on the key-board. She thumped the instrument as though she had a spite against it--which she had--and clawed it like a cat. Meanwhile her two brothers stood near the fire and Mrs. Malone hemmed handkerchiefs close to a reading lamp. Once or twice she glanced furtively at the pair on the rug. Could they both be her sons? It seemed strange that that tall young man with his air of distinction, that courteous, scrupulously-dressed stranger, could be brother to Denis, with his round shoulders, wild hair, and rude ways. Their voices were widely