I was walking with Lady Fincoss, and Francesca with Miss Clondalkin, a very learned personage who has deciphered more undecipherable inscriptions than any lady in Ireland, when our eyes fell upon an unexpected tableau. Seated on a divan in the centre of the drawing-room, in a most distinguished attitude, in unexceptionable attire, and with the rose-coloured lights making all her soft greys opalescent, was Miss Salemina Peabody. Our exclamations of astonishment were so audible that they must have reached the dining-room, for Lord Killbally did not keep the gentlemen long at their wine. Salemina cannot tell a story quite as it ought to be told to produce an effect. She is too reserved, too concise, too rigidly conscientious. She does not like to be the centre of interest, even in a modest contretemps like being locked out of a room which contains part of her dress; but from her brief explanation to Lady Killbally, her more complete and confidential account on the way home, and Benella's graphic story when we arrived there, we were able to get all the details. When the inside-car passed out of view with us, it appears that Benella wept tears of rage, at the sight of which Oonah and Molly trembled. In that moment of despair and remorse, her mind worked as it must always have done before the Salem priestess befogged it with hazy philosophies, understood neither by teacher nor by pupil. Peter had come back, but could suggest nothing. Benella forgot her 'science,' which prohibits rage and recrimination, and called him a great, hulking, lazy vagabone, and told him she'd like to have him in Salem for five minutes, just to show him a man with head on his shoulders. “You call this a Christian country,” she said, “and you haven't got a screwdriver, nor a bradawl, nor a monkey-wrench, nor a rat-tail file, nor no kind of a useful tool to bless yourselves with; and my Miss Peabody, that's worth ten dozen of you put together, has got to stay home from the Castle and eat warmed-up scraps served in courses, with twenty minutes' wait between 'em. Now you do as I say: take the dining-table and set it out under the window, and the carving-table on top o' that, and see how fur up it'll reach. I guess you can't stump a Salem woman by telling her there ain't no ladder.” The two tables were finally in position; but there still remained nine feet of distance to that key of the situation, Salemina's window, and Mrs. Waterford's dressing-table went on top of this pile. “Now, Peter,” were the next orders, “if you've got sprawl enough, and want to rest yourself by doin' something useful for once in your life, you just hold down the dining-table; and you and Oonah, Molly, keep the next two tables stiddy, while I climb up.”