“It’s a poor welcome for you, Mr. Clare,” said Frau Kellar. “I came in to see if everything was in order, and found the fire nearly gone out; so I rang for Lena, as these rooms are her business, and the silly thing, before she could get the coal on the fire, dropped the hod, and then couldn’t do nothing but cry.” As she explained, she had made a futile effort to assist in remedying the evil, which Mr. Clare had silently but decidedly refused. “Sure, I suppose she came in such haste that her hand shook. Isn’t it right I am, Lena?” “The bell rang so loud it frightened me,” said Lena, who had been making a brave struggle for self-control. “I didn’t forget the fire, Father; it was only that I didn’t put on quite enough coal.” “And ain’t the best of us liable to errors of judgment?” said the priest. “Give the child leave to run away now, Mrs. Kellar, and bathe her eyes. She’ll feel better when she’s had her dinner.” “I’d like to sweep up the dust for you, sir,” said the girl, with a look of appealing confidence, which made her face, despite its homeliness and grimy tear-stains, not absolutely unattractive. “To-morrow,” said Ernest Clare, smiling down at her, “to-morrow you shall do whatever you like, but for to-day Father McClosky’s advice is the best. A good dinner is the medicine you need.” He bowed her from the room as if she had been the first lady in the land—poor Lena, who had never had the door opened for her since she was tall enough to reach the knob—and said as she passed him, “I am glad you have the care of these rooms, for I am sure you will take great pains with them; but I will try to give you as little trouble as possible.” Lena did not reply; poor girl, her face and eyes were not in condition even to look an answer; but she went away with a heart overrunning with gratitude, and a firm determination that, while she had strength to crawl, Mr. Clare should never have cause to complain of neglect. Meanwhile, Mrs. Kellar had seized the hearth-broom, and was busily getting rid of the relics of the catastrophe. No one offered to relieve her of the duty; the priest had seated himself, and was quietly looking on, and Ernest Clare passed through the open door into his bedroom, in order to remove from his hands the traces of his late occupation. “Sure, it’s a pity,” began the priest, after a moment or two— “Don’t speak to me, Father McClosky,” said the woman, half petulantly; “ain’t I calling myself worse names yet than I’ve called Lena already?” “But calling names is no good, Mrs. Kellar; though I admit there’s a power of satisfaction in it at times.” “That’s so, Father. That poor girl! Did not Dr. Richards say that the best hope for her health is in the regular hours and regular work here? and didn’t I take her from her father’s house to have her under my eye”—