“Benella,” I said, in that mysterious whisper which one uses for such communications, “Dr. La Touche has asked Miss Peabody to marry him, and she has consented.” “It was full time!” the Derelict responded, with a deep sigh of relief, “but better late than never! Men folks are so queer, I don't hardly know how a merciful Providence ever came to invent 'em! Either they're so bold they'd propose to the Queen o' Sheba without mindin' it a mite, or else they're such scare-cats you 'bout have to ask 'em yourself, and then lug 'em to the minister's afterwards--there don't seem to be no halfway with 'em. Well, I'm glad you're all settled; it must be nice to have folks!” It was a pathetic little phrase, and I fancied I detected a tear in her usually cheerful and decided voice. Acting on the suspicion, I said hurriedly, “You have already had a share of Miss Monroe's 'folks' and mine offered you, and now Miss Peabody will be sure to add hers to the number. Your only difficulty will be to attend to them all impartially, and keep them from quarrelling as to which shall have you next.” She brightened visibly. “Yes,” she assented, without any superfluous modesty,--squeezing as she spoke a pair of bronze slippers into the crown of Francesca's favourite hat--“yes, that part'll be hard on all of us; but I want you to know that I belong to you this winter, any way; Miss Peabody can get along without me better'n you can.” Her glance was freighted with a kind of evasive, half-embarrassed affection; shy, unobtrusive, respectful it was, but altogether friendly and helpful. That the relations between us have ever quite been those of mistress and maid, I cannot affirm. We have tried to persuade ourselves that they were at least an imitation of the proper thing, just to maintain our self-respect while travelling in a country of monarchical institutions, but we have always tacitly understood the real situation and accepted its piquant incongruities. So when I met Benella Dusenberry's wistful, sympathetic eye, my republican head, reckless of British conventions, found the maternal hollow in her spinster shoulder as I said, “Dear old Derelict! it was a good day for us when you drifted into our harbour!” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Penelope's Irish Experiences, by Kate Douglas Wiggin