“Och! and wouldn’t they make a lovely pair! And wouldn’t I go ten miles on me hands and knees to see their wedding?” George could not restrain a smile, at the preposterous idea of coupling _him_ with his present companion. “What does she mean about offending Mrs. Redmond and the Lord?” he enquired precipitately--trusting that Juggy’s compliments had not reached Betty’s ears. “Oh! it’s a long story. She has lived at the lodge for years, and some of her people are not quite respectable. One of her brothers is a poacher, and another keeps a still. She used to sell his potheen on the sly, and I often wondered _why_ she had so many visitors, especially on Sundays, in Uncle Brian’s time, for he was an indulgent master, and seemed to think what he called ‘Juggy’s receptions’ a great joke, but last year she quarrelled with Foxy Joe--you know Foxy Joe?” “Yes, I am acquainted with him.” “Well, I believe they had some dispute about money, or whisky, and he informed on her, and told Aunt Emma that she kept a very thriving unlicensed ‘public’ at the lodge gate, and so, one day, when Juggy declared that she was dying of rheumatism and cold, and had sent up to her house for port wine and a little jam, Aunt Emma marched down to the lodge, about twelve o’clock at night, and made _me_ go with her. We peeped in at one of the front windows, and saw the whole kitchen lit up. One of the best drawing-room lamps was on the dresser, four silver candlesticks had also been borrowed, as well as glasses, and the family punch-bowl, and Mrs. Redmond’s pet claret jug. About fifty people were sitting round, drinking and smoking, and shouting ‘more power.’ There was a fiddler on the table, and Juggy herself and the Mahons’ groom were dancing a frantic jig in the middle of the floor. When Mrs. Redmond flung the door back and stalked in, perhaps you can imagine the scene, for it is beyond my power of description.” “I think I can picture it,” said George with a hearty laugh. “Tell me, Miss Betty, how is it that I never see you at Noone? And do you know that I am over almost every afternoon?” “Oh, yes, I am aware of that, but I have had other engagements. Have you been thinking that I am a sort of Cinderella, hidden in the kitchen among the ashes?” she enquired mischievously. “No,” he stammered; but the idea had occurred to him. “I don’t drink five o’clock tea, and I generally go over and sit with Miss Dopping, who has been ill; besides, I know that Belle is a host in herself.” (She said this in the frank innocence of her heart, and without the faintest _arrière pensée_.) “The more the merrier,” returned George, “we shall have your society this evening at any rate.” “No, I think not. I have a message to take for Mrs. Redmond. You see, Jones has wasted nearly all my day,” and she came to a full stop where the pathway led to the avenue. “Good-bye, then,” he said, “since you must go, and remember your promise.”