Trotting across the floor, back to the petticoat she had purloined from a chair, went a sedate little Kate Kearney. *CHAPTER II* "Four and threepence," said Denis, with his head up the chimney. "Sure?" said Nell, doubtfully. "I’ve added it up three times, and it hasn’t come to that once." "Then there’s no doubt about it; four and threepence ’tis, my dear!" A pause. A scream. "Oh, Denis, rescue them!" A horrible smell of burning ensued. Denis eyed the smoking stockings with equanimity. "O dear," sighed Nell, "and there was only one tiny hole in them. It’s all your fault, Denis. You shouldn’t be rude to me, when your head’s such a beautiful target." But Denis had emerged from the chimney, and was quietly smoking his cigarette in the open room. "Jolly good idea, old girl. Twig? Every time I want to do a smoke, we’ll burn a pair of stockings—they’d out-smell Patsy O’Driscoll’s cigars!" "Denis," Nell spoke with a puckered brow, "how much _is_ five cakes when they’re four for threepence halfpenny?" "Nell, your grammar! It makes me feel faint!" "’Are,’ then. You’re only trying to gain time. Oh, Atom, don’t move! Kate Kearney’s splendid like that. I _must_ get her." Denis looked over her shoulder as she dashed in a rapid pencil sketch. He glanced across at Molly and winked. It was a family joke that everything Nell began—accounts, sewing, tidying-up—ended, on the slightest possible pretext, in a sketch. "Oh, Denis," Molly besought nervously, "I _know_ Aunt Kezia will smell your cigarette!" He struck an attitude. "I defy her! Shall an O’Brien be cowed by a Scotch woman, and in his stronghold, too? Shall a young man who is also a bank clerk be frightened of a mere ignoramusess—oh, Lor’, Molly, hide me—hide me—here she comes!" Molly flung down the stocking she was darning. "Oh, Denis!" she gasped, jumping up and knocking over her chair. "Oh—" But Denis had subsided on to the old lounge, with his head buried in the cushion, and Molly realised she had been "had." She made a wild rush at him, K.K. joined in the fray, and Nell’s model was gone. "Pommel me as much as you like," cried he, weakly. "That’s the third time to-day you’ve swallowed Aunt Kezia!" "I should think she would be rather indigestible," opined Nell, putting in a few finishing touches. "Denis, what do you think of the way these chrysanthemums have faded? Only two days, and they cost half a crown!" "I’ll get you some more." Nell looked thoughtful; she stubbed her paper viciously. "I begin to fancy paupers oughtn’t to indulge in flowers." "Oh, Irish paupers ought," he declared airily. The Atom arose, shook out her skirts, and proceeded to the door. "Where are you going, Sheila Pat?" "Downstairs," was the staid reply.