“I don’t like anything in worsted-work but flowers,” said Sophy; “Nora Dillon says she saw two most beautiful wreaths at that shop in Grafton Street, both hanging from bars, you know; and that would be so much prettier. I’m sure Fanny would like flowers best; wouldn’t she now, Frank?—Mamma thinks the common cross-bar patterns are nicer for furniture.” “Indeed I do, my dear,” said Mrs O’Kelly; “and you see them much more common now in well-furnished drawing-rooms. But still I’d much sooner have them just what Fanny would like best. Surely, Frank, you must have heard her speak about worsted-work?” All this completely disconcerted Frank, and made him very much out of love with his own plan of consulting his mother. He gave the trio some not very encouraging answer as to their good-natured intentions towards his drawing-room, and again left them alone. “Well; there’s nothing for it but to send the parson; I don’t think he’ll make a fool of himself, but then I know he’ll look so shabby. However, here goes,” and he mounted his nag, and rode off to Ballindine glebe. The glebe-house was about a couple of miles from Kelly’s Court, and it was about half-past four when Lord Ballindine got there. He knocked at the door, which was wide open, though it was yet only the last day of March, and was told by a remarkably slatternly maid-servant, that her master was “jist afther dinner;” that he was stepped out, but was about the place, and could be “fetched in at oncet”—and would his honour walk in? And so Lord Ballindine was shown into the rectory drawing-room on one side of the passage (alias hall), while the attendant of all work went to announce his arrival in the rectory dining-room on the other side. Here Mrs Armstrong was sitting among her numerous progeny, securing the _débris_ of the dinner from their rapacious paws, and endeavouring to make two very unruly boys consume the portions of fat which had been supplied to them with, as they loudly declared, an unfairly insufficient quantum of lean. As the girl was good-natured enough to leave both doors wide open, Frank had the full advantage of the conversation. “Now, Greg,” said the mother, “if you leave your meat that way I’ll have it put by for you, and you shall have nothing but potatoes till it’s ate.” “Why, mother, it’s nothing but tallow; look here; you gave me all the outside part.” “I’ll tell your dada, and see what he’ll say, if you call the meat tallow; and you’re just as bad, Joe; worse if anything—gracious me, here’s waste! well, I’ll lock it up for you, and you shall both of you eat it to-morrow, before you have a bit of anything else.” Then followed a desperate fit of coughing. “My poor Minny!” said the mother, “you’re just as bad as ever. Why would you go out on the wet grass?—Is there none of the black currant jam left?” “No, mother,” coughed Minny, “not a bit.” “Greg ate it all,” peached Sarah, an elder sister; “I told him not, but he would.”