"I don't hold with making a child puny, miss. Coddling up, and that sort, only leads to consumptions and assmas, in my humble opingion." "I must request that for the future you will show deference to _our_ opinion, nurse; which is directly opposed to yours," says Miss Priscilla, straightening herself. "I suppose I can manage my own young lady, miss," says Mitchell, undaunted, and now, indeed, thoroughly braced for conflict. "I have grave doubts about that, Mitchell, and at least you should not answer me in this wise." "If I brought my young lady safely all the way from Jerusalem, miss, I suppose I can take care of her 'ere." "Her ear?" questions Miss Priscilla, not meaning to be rude at all. "She means _here_," says Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper. "Oh!" says Miss Priscilla, rather shocked at her mistake, which has been accepted by Mitchell as a deliberate insult. "Katherine, go upstairs with Mitchell, and change your shoes and stockings; they _must_ be damp." "I don't consider Mitchell at all a nice person," says Miss Priscilla, when the door had closed upon that veteran; "but still I hope I did not offend her with that last thoughtless slip of mine. But really, over here in Ireland, we are not accustomed to the extraordinary language in which Mitchell indulges at times. She seems to me to be saving up her aspirates for a hypothetical dearth of that article in the future." Miss Priscilla is so pleased with this long word that she quite recovers her temper. "Certainly, from Jerusalem _is_ a long way to bring a child," says Miss Penelope, thoughtfully; and, indeed, this journey from Palestine has been, and probably always will be, Mrs. Mitchell's trump card when disputing with the mistresses of Moyne. Miss Priscilla has walked to the window, and is now gazing in thoughtful fashion over the fast darkening landscape. Perhaps her mind is travelling that long journey to Palestine, perhaps it is still occupied with the inimical Mitchell; be that as it may, she keeps her senses well about her, and a keen eye behind her spectacles, because presently she says aloud, in a tone calculated to attract attention,-- "_What_ is that in the meadow, creeping along beneath the ha-ha, Katherine?"--Kit has returned with dry shoes and stockings;--"come here, your eyes are sharper than mine!" which is a distinct libel upon her own orbs. "Where?" says Kit, recognizing the crouching form of Terry with a pang of terror. Is she to be compelled to inform upon her own brother? Perish the thought! "Over _there_," says Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone, pointing to where the luckless Terence is crawling home in the fond belief that he is defying all detection; whereupon Kit, with much presence of mind, looks scrutinizingly in just the opposite direction. "It is somebody carrying a gun. Good gracious! it is remarkably like Terence!" At this Monica starts perceptibly, and lets the book she is holding fall heavily to the ground.