Another half mile of the greasy foot-path, and a lofty wall, topped with firs, comes into view, also a pair of big iron gates (once green), also a winding avenue--which is very green indeed--lined with dripping trees and over-grown laurels. In answer to a scream of “gate” in Miss Dopping’s cracked falsetto, a fat old woman, with a shawl over her head and a key on her finger, came waddling out of the lodge, and said as she curtseyed profoundly: “Good evening to you, me lady--a fine, soft day.” “And how are you, Juggy?” enquired Miss Dopping, with a keen glance into Juggy’s round, red face. “Faix, but poorly, me lady. I have had a cruel turn of them rheumatics; they catches me here, and here, and here”--clutching her elbows, back and knees, to illustrate her sufferings. “I feel as if I was being crucified, like the saints and martyrs, but a good flannel petticoat would put the life in me,” and she stared significantly at her interlocutor. “It’s only the damp weather--I feel it myself,” returned Miss Dopping unsympathetically. “Any one above?” pointing up the avenue with her notable umbrella--an immense alpaca construction of distended proportions, likewise remarkable for a huge ivory handle, representing Death’s head. When remonstrated with upon the subject of its size and age, its owner invariably replied: “It was good enough for my mother, and is good enough for me, and will wear out fifty of your nasty flimsy gimcracks.” “Yes, me lady, I am afther opening the gate for Mrs. Finny and Miss Maria.” Miss Dopping ejaculated something inaudible, and looked over her shoulder, as if she had a mind to retreat. “You may as well go up, ma’am,” urged Juggy, possibly divining her thoughts, “since you _are_ so far. They are in it a good hour or more, and bid to be going soon, for there’s no tay, or cake and wine offered _these_ times!” “Now what are they doing out here?” muttered the old lady to herself, as she plodded up the avenue. “They were here three days ago to my certain knowledge.” “Oh! so that’s you, Pat?” to a shock-haired urchin, with bare red legs, who burst though the laurels, with a grin of expectation on his dirty little keen face. “Let me see,” diving into her pocket as she spoke, “were you at school to-day?” “Begorra, I was, ma’am.” “Then spell Ballingoole?” Pat became painfully red, and his grin faded. “Well, well, then never mind,” producing a little knitted jug, containing coppers, and placing three pennies in his ready palm-- “Have you been out dark fowling since?” “No, ma’am,” was his reply,--but he lied unto her. “Because if you ever do such a cruel thing again, as blazing lanterns into poor birds’ eyes, and knocking them down with sticks, you have seen the last of my coppers, as sure as my name is Sarah Dopping; so mind _that_,” and with an emphatic thump of her umbrella, she tramped on.