The girls, consequently, were taught to be on the alert—to steal about on tiptoe, to elude their mother’s watchful ear, to have recourse to a thousand little methods of deceiving her, and to baffle her with her own weapons. The mother, if she suspected that any prohibited frolic was likely to be carried on, at a late hour, would tell her daughters that she was going to bed, and would shut herself up for a couple of hours in her bed-room, and then steal out eavesdropping, peeping through key-holes and listening at door-handles; and the daughters, knowing their mother’s practice, would not come forth till the listening and peeping had been completed, and till they had ascertained, by some infallible means, that the old woman was between the sheets. Each party knew the tricks of the other; and yet, taking it all in all, the widow got on very well with her children, and everybody said what a good mother she had been: she was accustomed to use deceit, and was therefore not disgusted by it in others. Whether the system of domestic manners which I have described is one likely to induce to sound restraint and good morals is a question which I will leave to be discussed by writers on educational points. However Meg managed it, she did contrive that her mother should not go near the little parlour this Sunday morning, and Anty was left alone, to receive her lover’s visit. I regret to say that he was long in paying it. He loitered about the chapel gates before he came home; and seemed more than usually willing to talk to anyone about anything. At last, however, just as Meg was getting furious, he entered the inn. “Why, Martin, you born ideot—av’ she ain’t waiting for you this hour and more!” “Thim that’s long waited for is always welcome when they do come,” replied Martin. “Well—afther all I’ve done for you! Are you going in now?—cause, av’ you don’t, I’ll go and tell her not to be tasing herself about you. I’ll neither be art or part in any such schaming.” “Schaming, is it, Meg? Faith, it’d be a clever fellow’d beat you at that,” and, without waiting for his sister’s sharp reply, he walked into the little room where Anty was sitting. “So, Anty, you wouldn’t come to mass?” he began. “Maybe I’ll go next Sunday,” said she. “It’s a long time since you missed mass before, I’m thinking.” “Not since the Sunday afther father’s death.” “It’s little you were thinking then how soon you’d be stopping down here with us at the inn.” “That’s thrue for you, Martin, God knows.”