Ten days went by very quietly--the calm after the storm. Mr. West never alluded to his daughter’s foolish speech, and kissed her and patted her on the shoulder that selfsame night, as if there had been no little scene between them in the morning. He was waiting. Lord Anthony, even in Madeline’s opinion, behaved beautifully. He did not hold himself too markedly aloof, and yet he never thrust his society upon her, or sought to have a word with her alone. He also was waiting. CHAPTER XX. NOT “A HAPPY COUPLE.” The postponed picnic to the Devil’s Pie-dish eventually came off. It took place on the occasion of what was called “a holiday of obligation,” when no good Catholics are allowed to work, but must put on their best clothes and attend Mass. As there were no keepers or beaters available, the shooting-men meekly submitted to their fate, and started to the mountains, for once, minus dogs and guns, and escorting a large assortment of ladies, in a break, landau, dog-cart, and jaunting-car. The morning was lovely; the treacherous sun smiled upon and beguiled the party to the summit of one of the mountains--a wild spot commanding a splendid view of river, forest, lake, and sea--a long, long climb, but it repaid the exertion. Luncheon was laid out in the Pie-dish, a green hollow between two peaks, and it was there discussed with great appreciation. The festive party sat long. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, mists began to collect, clouds to gather; the scenery at their feet grew dimmer and yet dimmer, the hypocritical sunshine vanished and gave way to rain, heavy, stinging rain. There was no shelter, not for miles--not a bush, much less a tree; but at a distance some one descried what looked like a _mound of stones_, but proved to be a cottage. To this dwelling every one ran at their utmost speed. It certainly was a house--a little humped-back cot that seemed as if it had been in the act of running down hill and had sat down. It consisted of a kitchen and bedroom, and the former could scarcely contain the company, even standing. There were one or two stools, a chest, and a chair. The atmosphere was stifling, but “any port in a storm;” anything sooner than the icy, cutting rain that swept the mountain. When their eyes became accustomed to the place, it turned out that besides smoke and hens, it contained an old woman, who sat huddled up by the fire enjoying a pipe, and who stared stolidly and made no answer to eager inquiries for permission to remain. She was either stone deaf or silly, possibly both. But suddenly a barefooted girl entered, with a creel of wet turf on her back. “I see yees running, and yees are kindly welcome,” upsetting her load in a corner, and shaking out her wet shawl. “The grannie, there,” pointing, “has no English; ’tis only Irish she can spake.”