When, however, he had, with a good deal of pompous benevolence, driven up on his outside-car to fetch Miss Rorke from the tumbled-down cabin which had been hitherto the only home she had known, that young lady, instead of being properly grateful, and impressed by her relative’s condescension, had displayed a spirit of independence, and indeed stubbornness, which the worthy old gentleman found as bewildering as mortifying.  He had never taken any notice of them before, she had averred; he had let her father starve, and her mother work herself to death.  Roseen was not going to be beholden to him now—­she’d earn her own bread, so she would, an’ if he thought shame of his grandchild goin’ to sarvice, she was glad of it, so she was, an’ she’d make sure an’ tell every one the way he was afther thratin’ them.  Peter had rubbed his lantern-jaw and glanced askance at the determined little maiden who stood facing him, her blue eyes flashing through her tears, and every line of face and figure betokening resolution.  First, he had been puzzled, then angry, finally he had had recourse to entreaty, feeling in his heart that he could never look the neighbours in the face again if the story got about that this chit had “got the better of him that way.”  At length Roseen had suffered herself to be softened, and agreed, after much persuasion, to a compromise.  She would condescend to take up her abode under her grandfather’s roof on the condition that Judy came too.  Judy was one of these appendages so frequently to be seen in Irish cabins, there being, apparently, scarcely any householder so poor that he or she cannot afford to shelter some one poorer still.  While there is a roof over their heads, a potato to put into their mouths, the Irish peasants will share with one another.  Ever since Roseen could remember, Judy had been an inmate of their home; she had helped in the small household labours, tended Mrs. Rorke after her own fashion when she had been sick, scolded and adored Roseen from babyhood to youth.  There was not much else poor Judy could do, except smoke her pipe when, by some lucky chance, a “bit o’ baccy” came in her way:  she was not only old and lame, but half-witted, very nearly “innocent.”  What Peter’s feelings had been may be guessed when invited to receive this strange-looking old creature into his house; but Roseen had been firm, and he had finally consented.

Whether there had been some dormant family affection in that withered heart of his, which had sprung to life now that poor Mrs. Rorke no longer stood between him and his own flesh and blood, or whether the girl’s obstinacy had aroused in him a corresponding desire to carry his point, or whether, as some of the neighbours ill-naturedly said, he thought if the fine little colleen was to go to sarvice at all, she might as well come to him for no wages as to be airnin’ from somebody else, remains a mystery; but it is certain that in spite of the unpleasant condition imposed