“Indeed, I’d be long sorry to come from such a dirty place—­beggin’ your pardon for sayin’ it.  No, indeed, I am from the Queen’s County, near Mar’boro’.  We had the loveliest little farm there ye could see, me an’ me poor husband, the Lord ha’ mercy on his soul!  Aye, indeed, it’s little we ever thought—­but no matther!  Glory be to goodness! my little boy’ll be comin’ back from America soon to take me out o’ this.”

“Sure it’s well for ye,” said Kate, “that has a fine son o’ your own to work for ye.  Look at me without a crature in the wide world belongin’ to me!  An’ how long is your son in America, ma’am?”

“Goin’ on two year now,” said Mrs. Brady, with a sigh.

“He’ll be apt to be writin’ to ye often, I s’pose, ma’am.”

“Why then, indeed, not so often.  The poor fellow, he was niver much of a hand at the pen.  He’s movin’ about, ye see, gettin’ work here an’ there.”

Sister Louise had moved on, seeing that the pair were likely to make friends; and before ten minutes had elapsed each was in possession of the other’s history.  Kate’s, indeed, was simple enough; her seventeen years in the infirmary being preceded by a quiet life in a very uninteresting neighbourhood; but she “came of decent people,” being connected with “the rale ould O’Rorkes,” and her father had been “in business”; two circumstances which impressed Mrs. Brady very much, and caused her to unbend towards “Miss Mahony,” as she now respectfully called her new acquaintance.  The latter was loud in expressions of admiration and sympathy as Mrs. Brady described the splendours of the past; the servant-man and the servant-maid, who, according to her, once formed portion of her establishment; the four beautiful milch cows which her husband kept, besides sheep, and a horse an’ car, and “bastes” innumerable; the three little boys they buried, and then Barney—­Barney, the jewel, who was now in Amerika.

“The finest little fella ye’d see between this an’ County Cork!  Over six fut, he is, an’ wid a pair o’ shoulders on him that ye’d think ’ud hardly get in through that door beyant.”

“Lonneys!” said Kate admiringly.

“Aye, indeed, an’ ye ought to see the beautiful black curly head of him, an’ eyes like sloes, an’ cheeks—­why I declare”—­half raising herself and speaking with great animation, “he’s the very moral o’ St. Patrick over there!  God forgive me for sayin’ such a thing, but raly if I was to drop down dead this minute I couldn’t but think it!  Now I assure ye, Miss Mahony, he’s the very image of that blessed statye, ’pon me word!”

Miss Mahony looked appreciatively at the representation of the patron of Ireland, which was remarkable no less for vigour of outline and colouring than for conveying an impression of exceeding cheerfulness, as both the saint himself and the serpent which was wriggling from beneath his feet were smiling in the most affable manner conceivable.

“Mustn’t he be the fine boy!” she ejaculated, after a pause.  “I’d love to see him—­but I’ll niver get a chanst o’ that, I s’pose.  Will he be comin’ here to see ye, ma’am?”