‘Well, I’ll say he’s handsome, if you like,’ says Betty, slightly affronted. ‘Any way, he has been very good to Bonnie. I suppose that’s what makes him handsome in your eyes. And he has been kind, too—could anyone be kinder?—and sometimes, Susan, I feel that I love him just as much as you do.’ ‘Oh, I don’t love him!’ says Susan, flushing. ‘No? Is it gratitude, then? Well, whatever it is you feel, Susan, I feel just the same—because he has been so kind to poor Bonnie.’ Susan turns away without replying. And then, ‘We must go down,’ says she. ‘Well, come,’ says Betty, a little urgently. ‘I’m sure I have only been waiting for you, Susan. I wonder what Christmas cards we shall get.’ ‘One from Dom, any way.’ Mr. Fitzgerald had been summoned home by his guardian for Christmas, much to his disgust. ‘Oh, that! But Dom doesn’t count!’ says Betty, tilting her pretty nose in rather a disdainful fashion. * * * * * Breakfast is nearly over, however, before the post arrives. The postman of Curraghcloyne has had many delays to-day. At every house every resident has given him his Christmas-box, and sometimes a ‘stirrup cup’ besides, so that by the time he gets to the Rectory he is very considerably the worse for wear. Yet he gives out his letters there with the air of a finished postman, and accepts the Rectory annual five shillings with a bow that would not have disgraced Chesterfield. That his old caubeen is on the side of his head, and his articulation somewhat indistinct, detracts in no wise from the dignity of the way in which he delivers his packages and bids Mr. Barry ‘All th’ complaints o’ t’ saison!’ ‘Oh, here’s one from Dom!’ cries Betty, tearing open her letter. ‘And written all on the back! What on earth has he got to say on a Christmas card? Why didn’t he write a letter? ‘“MY DEAR BETTY, ‘“I feel as I write this that you don’t know where you are. That shows the great moral difference between you and me. I know where I am, and I wish to Heaven I didn’t. Old uncle is awfully trying. Puts your back up half a dozen times a minute. I don’t believe I’ll ever get back; because if he doesn’t murder me I shall infallibly murder him, and then where shall we all be? I’ve written most religiously all over this card (I chose a big one on purpose), so that you cannot, in the usual mean fashion peculiar to girls, send it on again to your dearest friend as a New Year’s offering. See how well I know your little ways!”’