The Real Charlotte. 113 



whether she possessed such things, and she gave a feeble 

 laugh of surprise at the way her heart jumped and fluttered 

 when the door slammed unexpectedly behind her. The 

 old green sofa had been pulled out from the wall and placed 

 near the open window, with the Dublin Express laid upoi 

 it ; Francie noticed and appreciated the attention, and 

 noted, too, that an arm-chair, sacred to the use of visitors 

 had been planted in convenient relation to the sofa. " For 

 Mr. Dysart, I suppose," she thought, with a curl of her 

 pretty lip ; " he'll be as much obliged to her as I am." She 

 pushed the chair away, and debated with herself as to 

 whether she should dislodge the two cats who, with faces of 

 frowning withdrawal from all things earthly, were heaped 

 in simulated slumber in the corner of the sofa. She chose 

 the arm-chair, and, taking up the paper, languidly read the 

 list of places where bands would play in the coming week, 

 and the advertisement of the anthem at St. Patrick's for the 

 next day. 



How remote she felt from it all ! How stale appeared 

 these cherished amusements ! Most people would think 

 the Lismoyle choir a poor substitute for the ranks of white 

 surplices in the chancel of St. Patrick's, with the banners of 

 the knights hanging above them, but Francie thought it 

 much better fun to look down over the edge of the Lismoyle 

 gallery at the red coats of Captain Cursiter's detachment, 

 than to stand crushed in the nave of the cathedral, even 

 though the most popular treble was to sing a solo, and 

 though Mr. Thomas VVhitty might be waiting on the steps 

 to disentangle her from the crowd that would slowly surge 

 up them into the street. A heavy booted foot came along 

 the passage, and the door was opened by Norry, holding in 

 her grimy hand a tumbler containing a nauseous-looking 

 yellow mixture. 



" Miss Charlotte bid me give ye a bate egg with a half 

 glass of whisky in it whenever ye'd come downstairs." She 

 stirred it with a black kitchen fork, and proffered the sticky 

 tumbler to Francie, who took it, and swallowed the thin, flat 

 liquid which it contained with a shudder of loathing. "How 

 bad y'are ! Dhrink every dhrop of it now ! An empty 

 sack won't stand, and ye're as white as a masheroon this 

 minute. God knows it's in yer bed ye should be, and not 



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