OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



certain old woman might be who dwelt there. She had 



been long bedridden. 



" Troth, and she's the same as ever ! " 



" My goodness/' exclaimed my mother, " why, she must be 



nearly a hundred ! " 



"She must be that, me lady. Begorra, she'll have to be 



shot!" 



My mother laughed, and so did the herd. The anguish of 



the small listener passes description / and there ensued a 



veritable haunting. The herd she could understand, she 



knew him to be a criminal of the deepest dye. But her 



mother! . . . 



It was months before a benevolent governess discovered 



the hidden sore, and explained and consoled. It was only 



a joke! It left a rankling tenderness. I could see no 



humour in it. 



It is no wonder that Irish children should be fanciful, sur- 

 rounded as they are, or were in my day, with the quaint, 

 superstitious beliefs of servants and peasantry. Our chief 

 nursery comfort and most beloved companion was the old 

 housekeeper, who had begun her life in the service of our 

 mother's grandmother. That takes one back ! Whenever 

 we had a free moment we trotted into her sitting-room for 

 pleasant conversation and, maybe, a biscuit, a bit of 

 chocolate or candy. She had the key of the stores. 

 " I declare if I was made of sugar, you'd have me eaten ! " 

 she would say / a cannibalistic possibility I made it a point 

 of earnestly disclaiming. 



The linen room was where she sat, in a quaint, painted, 

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