“How he dare!—how he dare—!” a slipper crashed into the fireplace. “Anything for novelty. I suppose he thinks he will amuse himself with me next! He talks as if he imagines I am merely playing—as if a little coaxing and cajolery—he’s—he’s—bother these tangles!” and the beautiful hair began to suffer badly from its owner’s perturbed frame of mind. “But he’ll soon find he’s mistaken,”—the hairbrush missed the window by half-an-inch, and fell into the water-jug: “Oh! if only I were a man and could fight him!—But I’m a Dublin Fusilier General’s daughter—and I ought to know something about fighting!” Over went a chair backward, bringing down a small table laden with photo frames. “I’ll be even with him yet—the sweep!” with which she dived under the bedclothes, as if she were a whole regiment of Fusiliers storming a position. CHAPTER XXXIV Robert Morony on Church Restoration. It was not until the second week in August that Paddy was able to start on her summer holiday, and then she journeyed to Omeath to pay her long-counted-on visit to the Parsonage. Eileen and her mother and the two aunties were all at the little station awaiting her, when the train drew up soon after seven in the morning, and, like some small terrier beside itself with excitement, Paddy almost fell headlong, upon the top of them all. From the very instant she caught sight of her old friend the giant on Carlingford Mountain she threw off all cares, all recollections of London, all responsibilities, and stepped into the Omeath train almost the identical, headstrong, happy-go-lucky Paddy of eighteen months ago. Such a hand-shaking there had been at Greenore, for she knew all the railway porters and the station officials and everyone connected with the hotel, and, judging from the greetings, they were as pleased to see her as she them. At Omeath the others began to wonder what time they would manage to get her as far as the Parsonage, for every man, woman, and child had to be talked to and shaken hands with. There was a great spread for breakfast—everything that they knew she liked best and poor Paddy had to taste something of each dish to please them, until she was obliged to impress them politely that she had reached the utmost limit of her capacity. After breakfast she and Eileen went off on an exploring expedition through the village. At the church gate they met the sexton, old Robert Morony, a sort of monument of longevity to the village. “I’ve been to see the restorations, Robert,” cried Paddy joyously. “Doesn’t the church look lovely!” “It do, indaid, Miss Paddy,” answered the old man, shaking hands with unmistakable pleasure. “Faith! did ye iver see sich a luvely place o’ warship afore? An’ everythin’ so compact lik’! What I mean, nothin’ stunted.” “I should think not, Robert. Trust Aunt Jane and Aunt Mary to do a thing thoroughly if they undertake it. When I heard the church was to be restored by them, I said, ‘Begorra! that’ll be an edifice to be proud of now!’”