Councillor Crosbie laughed loud at the conceit, declaring that he saw no reason why pikeheads should not be added to the 'blackguard knives' in the armoury, and his cousin gave him such a distracting look of thanks that he chid himself for considering the matter at all; while Cassidy, who also caught the look, glared out to seaward, clenching his fists in his deep pockets. 'That eccentric person, Mrs. Gillin!' Terence cried gaily. 'So she's mixed up with all this plotting, is she? Has she taken the oath, or is she but a privileged outsider like myself? And my man Phil, too--that's to please red-polled Biddy, doubtless. Let's take the oath, Doreen, while we can make a favour of it, for all Ireland will, it seems, be in it soon. The good lady was in her garden as I passed this morning, strutting about with leather gloves and garden-shears, and bowed solemnly to me as I passed. What a queer woman! At the Rotunda the other day she came and stood before me, though we have never been introduced, and said, "Are you sure, young man, that you left your home of your free will?" When I said "Certainly," she gave a satisfied nod and disappeared in the crowd. If her daughter is pining for Shane, her mother evidently sets her cap at me. I trust you will all be civil to the future Madam Crosbie. This is the way she walks----' and the irreverent scapegrace proceeded to waddle up and down with so exact an imitation of Mrs. Gillin's peculiarities that Cassidy fairly shouted. That lady and her doings being a tabooed subject at the Abbey, there was special delight in talking of her on the sly. All three were guiltily startled by the opening of my lady's bedroom window (which looked upon the courtyard), and the apparition of Queen Bess in a bad temper, summoning Miss Wolfe to her presence. CHAPTER XI. STORMY WEATHER. My lady was walking up and down the tapestry-saloon with hands clasped behind her back, when her niece joined her--a prey evidently to considerable agitation. Doreen marked the deepened wrinkles on her forehead, the tightening of the thin lips, the contraction of the nostrils, and waited with accustomed self-possession to hear her elder's pleasure. The countess was displeased about something. Her fine face was pale, her eyes tinged with red. Her majestic draperies seemed to whisper in their soft rustle that something was seriously disturbing the spirit of the chatelaine. Wheeling round presently, she faced her niece, and, scrutinising her narrowly, spoke. 'Terence has come home to live,' she remarked. 'Mr. Curran cannot bear him any more, and I am not surprised. We must put up with him; he's enough to vex a saint!' Doreen's cheek flushed with swift anger at his mother's unwarrantable speech. 'Oh, aunt!' she said, 'dare you speak thus of your own child!'