"I do think she’s worthy, Nell. Sarah says she is, and she says she wouldn’t leave here because you never know what you might get. She’s very _just_, you see. Some mistresses are awful; they blame you for things like the taps leakin’ and the chimney smokin’, when they’re cross. Aunt Kezia never does. I think she’s rather nice to talk to sometimes," thoughtfully, "and she’s very honest—she told me she was always quite ugly, and she’s got some beautiful animals all worked in silk that her mother did when she was quite young, and you see, she can’t help bein’ borned Scotch!" On her part Miss Kezia went so far as, "I do not understand Sheila, but there is a solid layer of goodness beneath her eccentricities." The truth was, Miss Kezia, angry, bewildered, worried, as she so often was in these days, nevertheless found an unexpected partiality developing within her for the young O’Briens,—an unexpected recognition of their charm. What with finishing presents, buying them, packing up the hospital toys, and fighting various little imps who whispered things about this time last year, they found those days before Christmas pretty full. One evening some carollers came and sang lustily in the road outside the house. As they began, the front door was opened and Miss Kezia’s grim voice bade them begone. But upstairs there was a wild scamper to a bedroom window—it was flung up—and pennies came hurtling through the air—"Go on! Please, go on!" and voices at the window joined lustily in. For the song the carollers sang was "Rory O’More." "Young Rory O’More courted Kathaleen bawn, He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn; He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. ’Now, Rory, be aisy,’ sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye, ’With your tricks I don’t know, in troth, what I’m about; Faith, you’ve teaz’d till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.’ ’Oh, jewel!’ says Rory, ’that same is the way You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day, And ’tis plaz’d that I am, and why not, to be sure? For ’tis all for good luck,’ says bold Rory O’More." The voices at the window started the next verse:— "’Indeed, then,’ says Kathleen, ’don’t think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound.’ ’Faith,’ says Rory, ’I’d rather love you than the ground.’ ’Now, Rory, I’ll cry, if you don’t let me go; Sure I dream ev’ry night that I’m hating you so!’ ’Oh!’ says Rory, ’that same I’m delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by contraries, my dear.’ ’Now, Rory, leave off, sir. You’ll hug me no more; That’s eight times to-day, that you’ve kissed me before.’ ’Then here goes another,’ says he, ’to make sure, For there’s luck in odd numbers,’ says Rory O’More." As the last words rang out Nell flung down a sixpence.