"Don't believe a word of it, ma'am," says cook, with virtuous indignation. "Just because she holds up her head a bit, an' likes a ribbon or two, there's no holdin' the gossips down below," indicating the village by a backward jerk of her thumb. "She's as dacent a little sowl as you'd wish to see, an' has as nate a foot as there is in the county. The Cantys has all a character for purty feet." "Pretty feet are all very well in their way," says Miss Priscilla, nodding her head. "But can she sew? and is she quiet and tractable, and----" "Divil a thing she can't do, ma'am, axin' yer pardon," says Mrs. Reilly, rather losing herself in the excitement of the moment. "Just thry her, ma'am, an' if ye don't like her, an' if Miss Monica finds even one fault in her, just send her back to her mother. I can't say fairer nor that." "No, indeed. Very well, Reilly, let her come up to me to-morrow; and see that her inside clothes are all right, and let her know she must _never_ be out after dark." "Yes, ma'am," says the triumphant Reilly, beating a hasty retreat. Half an hour afterwards she encounters Monica upon the avenue. "Why, where are you going, Mrs. Reilly?" asks Monica, seeing that cook is got up in all her war-paint, regardless of expense. "To mass first, miss," says Mrs. Reilly. "Where's that?" asks Monica, with foreign ignorance. "Law! to the chapel, miss," says Reilly, with an amused smile. "But it isn't Sunday?" "No, miss. It's a saint's day--may they be good to us!" crossing herself. "It's different with you, miss, you see; but we poor folks, we must say our prayers when we can, or the Virgin will dhrop us out of her mind." "Is your chapel pretty?" asks Monica, who has now been a week in the country, and through very weariness feels a mad desire to talk to somebody or anybody. "Faix, it's lovely, miss, since Father Jerry took it in hand! There's the finest pictures ye ever saw on the walls, an' an altar it 'ud do ye good to look at." "Would it? Then I'll go some day to see it," says Monica, smiling, not knowing that her aunts would as soon let her enter a pandemonium as a Roman Catholic chapel. Dear old ladies! frightened by shadows, they have been bred in the belief that the Evil One dwells beneath the shade of the Romish Church, and will therefore surely die in it. "Do, then, agra!" said Mrs. Reilly, who has, of course, like all the other servants, gone down before Monica: "it's proud we'd be to see ye there." There is no thought of conversion in the woman's mind, you must remember,--merely a hospitable desire to let her know she will be welcome anywhere. "By the same token, Miss Monica," says she, "there's something I was near forgettin' to tell ye." "Yes!" says Monica. "Ye're goin' to have me uncle's wife's niece for yer own maid, miss." "Am I? I'm glad of that," says Monica, with a native courtesy. "Is she"--with some hesitation and a faint blush--"is she pretty, Reilly?"